And here we are at another Sunday. Mass, lunch with Josh, Lacamas Park and the Camas Lilly Fields, Oscars, Frosties with Chad, new Postsecrets. And now let's commence the spontaneous and disjointed Facebook musings.
When I'm alone, my heart slowly and silently weeps for you.
...crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed dropping little reels of tape...
I've had Coldplay's "Fix You" stuck in my head all day.
...lights will guide you home...
I think Camas is becoming my favorite place on earth. As I realize this, I also am beginning to understand why I can't stay there, and how terrified I am of the uncertainty and changes that are likely to take place in my future. I can keep going, honest, I can, I can do it - as long as I have a few good pairs of arms to fall into when I get tired and worn. I'm just scared of it right now, alone, on my bed, in my room, in Camas.
I'm starting to see how dysfunctional my family is becoming in its own way. I also believe that hope is not lost for all to be mended. Times like these I praise God for my optimism. I really hope I do a good job with my kids. Really, really hope.
Lestat Lives. And the next Christ the Lord comes out March 4th. Praise God that Anne Rice is still alive and writing. Thing to do before I die #23: Meet Anne Rice before she dies. If Lestat were real...sometimes I'm not sure that I wouldn't ask him to change me.
I just killed a bug. It was tiny and looked like a yellow ladybug. It made a crunching sound. Like a potato chip. Or the clicky sound my laptop keys make.
After lunch with Josh I took a walk around Lacamas Lake and walked up to the Lilly Field. Or, where it is when they're blooming. It's one of the best stargazing spots in town. It's really not much. It's just special to me because I've been there at night with David and Chris and Nathan and Kayla and Chad and everyone. Illegally, mind you. But no one really is going to catch us, and we're not hurting anything, so no one really cares.
For the first time, I wish Camas and Emmitsburg weren't so far away. Really, really wish Washington and Maryland were closer. I wish my friends in my two worlds could meet each other, I wish I could see them all on breaks. I envy the kids that get to go home on weekends. I do suppose it was important for me to go so far to break the chains. But dang...I really wish I could have a family there. Yes, my college buddies have all become my surrogate family, and I really love them dearly. But there's still that line there. The line that goes away with time and experience. That might just be in my still slightly cautious mind, a mind that doesn't want to impose and overstay her welcome. The line that comes with the fact that remains, that I'm from Washington, that makes me different, and that I'm not really one of them. Yet? Wow that's depressing. Quite depressing. I think I need to take comfort in the fact that I'm beginning a new chapter, a new history there, and heck, I at least have Kayla. But it still makes me feel a bit empty. Not empty. Alone. Lonely. I know what it is. It's the fact that I don't fit completely with the east side yet, but that I'm getting separated from the west side at the same time. It's like I'm in the in between where I'm just a friend in one world and visiting relative in the other. The solid ground beneath me is shaking, and I pray that it doesn't open up beneath my feet to swallow me whole.
I love watching the Oscars. A big reason for it is because I love seeing the gowns the women wear. I think they're so pretty. I like to watch Olympic Figure Skating for similar reasons.
So let's see...feelings of apprehension, loneliness, uncertainty, awe, wonder, excitement, amusement, compassion...
Sounds like a typical day.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Laura and Michel, sitting in a tree...
...K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
I was reading over Petrarch's Sonnets, as part of my studying for Hamel's Lit midterm tomorrow. Oh how I wish I could write poetry. I used to try. It wasn't too bad, either. When I was 12 I was making ample use of extended metaphor and whatnot. I wrote a poem about someone washing their hands, but using a battle instead. Part of me is a bit embarrassed by it, but another part is still proud as heck of it. I'd write about everything. I even pulled off an actual Shakespearian sonnet for English freshman year of high school. I love words. I love the English language. And although Rosencrantz and Guildenstern may be dead, I love them dearly.
If I could write poetry, I could write songs. Oh man, that would be perfect. But as it is I am left to make use of the works of others, copy and paste words from someone else's mouth. I've said it a few times, but I believe in two things: love and music. Maybe there’s a reason why I play the clarinet. So my mouth is too busy making an embouchure to sing while I play.
I love Blue October because their songs are purposeful; they have meaning and use brilliant and harsh imagery. I first heard their song "Hate Me" and what struck me the most was "They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed, dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I'm alone, playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home." And then I saw their music video for "Into the Ocean" and I had a new favorite song. Their music in that song is even bubbly, like water. But currently my favorite by them is "Independently Happy." Perfectly describes my feelings towards living here, because I’m finally happy. But you all know that. If you don’t, consult my previous notes.
But alas, Prose is my voice. I don't mean to say that I'm discontent with it. Far from it, because (these are my Notes, so I can sound incredibly arrogant if I want to) I've got a pretty darn good handle of informal prose when I feel it. It's my voice, and if you want to be happy you have to learn to love your unique voice. Prose is part of my voice. The thing is, even my poetry was always most comfortable for me when written in free or blank verse. It just shows, I guess, that prose is what I'm meant to use, and to use it well. I have the greener disease.
So why do I want poetry? Poetry, real poetry has to come from the heart. It's the same reason why I fall for musicians. Real music comes from the soul. Its fruit of something deep and real and beautiful living there, growing there. A real soul, a real heart that cares about the big questions, that has the capacity to love and be loved. And damn, that's hot. I get excited when I hear that someone (especially guys) writes poetry, or songs, because songs count as poetry. I think part of it also has to do with the fact that I’m a hopeless romantic. Gothic Macabre from Poe, Romanticism from Shakespearian sonnets and drama, and passion from a million other greats.
I think I write a bit like Montaigne does. Start with a topic, make digressions, and maybe come back to the original point. Frankly I haven’t read as much as I am supposed to of his work, but I still feel a bit of affinity with him. Much like how I can relate in a scary way to Catherine of Northanger Abbey. Now that was fun reading. Another Sparknotes Classic. Ah well. There are worse things, I suppose. Besides the fact that Sparknotes is a complete and total insult to the actual reading of literature because it is abused so much to take the place of actual reading. But I read and use them anyway. You could call me a hypocrite; I call me human. I acknowledge my deficiencies and advocate the ideal. Wow, that sounds a lot like Catholic teaching. Regular old wishy washy Christian, even. (again, my dad is Lutheran, so I can bash prots because deep down inside I really love them. It’s the same concept as it being ok for black people to bash black people. I take my excuses for invective when I can get them. Deal with it). Realize we’re sinful, but try to ‘be perfect, just as your heavenly father is perfect.’
Bottom line (But why should there be one?): I love poetry, but I write prose and I’m okay with that. If you write poetry and I have some sick feeble sort of feelings, whatever form they take for you, they’ll be magnified by double if you write poetry, and ten if it’s good. That goes for friends and lovers.
Lovers. HA. Now there’s a funny word. Let the record show that Katelyn is single and happy. Independently Happy.
Damn I love layers of meaning.
Happy (Belated) Valentine’s Day, everyone.
I was reading over Petrarch's Sonnets, as part of my studying for Hamel's Lit midterm tomorrow. Oh how I wish I could write poetry. I used to try. It wasn't too bad, either. When I was 12 I was making ample use of extended metaphor and whatnot. I wrote a poem about someone washing their hands, but using a battle instead. Part of me is a bit embarrassed by it, but another part is still proud as heck of it. I'd write about everything. I even pulled off an actual Shakespearian sonnet for English freshman year of high school. I love words. I love the English language. And although Rosencrantz and Guildenstern may be dead, I love them dearly.
If I could write poetry, I could write songs. Oh man, that would be perfect. But as it is I am left to make use of the works of others, copy and paste words from someone else's mouth. I've said it a few times, but I believe in two things: love and music. Maybe there’s a reason why I play the clarinet. So my mouth is too busy making an embouchure to sing while I play.
I love Blue October because their songs are purposeful; they have meaning and use brilliant and harsh imagery. I first heard their song "Hate Me" and what struck me the most was "They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed, dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I'm alone, playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home." And then I saw their music video for "Into the Ocean" and I had a new favorite song. Their music in that song is even bubbly, like water. But currently my favorite by them is "Independently Happy." Perfectly describes my feelings towards living here, because I’m finally happy. But you all know that. If you don’t, consult my previous notes.
But alas, Prose is my voice. I don't mean to say that I'm discontent with it. Far from it, because (these are my Notes, so I can sound incredibly arrogant if I want to) I've got a pretty darn good handle of informal prose when I feel it. It's my voice, and if you want to be happy you have to learn to love your unique voice. Prose is part of my voice. The thing is, even my poetry was always most comfortable for me when written in free or blank verse. It just shows, I guess, that prose is what I'm meant to use, and to use it well. I have the greener disease.
So why do I want poetry? Poetry, real poetry has to come from the heart. It's the same reason why I fall for musicians. Real music comes from the soul. Its fruit of something deep and real and beautiful living there, growing there. A real soul, a real heart that cares about the big questions, that has the capacity to love and be loved. And damn, that's hot. I get excited when I hear that someone (especially guys) writes poetry, or songs, because songs count as poetry. I think part of it also has to do with the fact that I’m a hopeless romantic. Gothic Macabre from Poe, Romanticism from Shakespearian sonnets and drama, and passion from a million other greats.
I think I write a bit like Montaigne does. Start with a topic, make digressions, and maybe come back to the original point. Frankly I haven’t read as much as I am supposed to of his work, but I still feel a bit of affinity with him. Much like how I can relate in a scary way to Catherine of Northanger Abbey. Now that was fun reading. Another Sparknotes Classic. Ah well. There are worse things, I suppose. Besides the fact that Sparknotes is a complete and total insult to the actual reading of literature because it is abused so much to take the place of actual reading. But I read and use them anyway. You could call me a hypocrite; I call me human. I acknowledge my deficiencies and advocate the ideal. Wow, that sounds a lot like Catholic teaching. Regular old wishy washy Christian, even. (again, my dad is Lutheran, so I can bash prots because deep down inside I really love them. It’s the same concept as it being ok for black people to bash black people. I take my excuses for invective when I can get them. Deal with it). Realize we’re sinful, but try to ‘be perfect, just as your heavenly father is perfect.’
Bottom line (But why should there be one?): I love poetry, but I write prose and I’m okay with that. If you write poetry and I have some sick feeble sort of feelings, whatever form they take for you, they’ll be magnified by double if you write poetry, and ten if it’s good. That goes for friends and lovers.
Lovers. HA. Now there’s a funny word. Let the record show that Katelyn is single and happy. Independently Happy.
Damn I love layers of meaning.
Happy (Belated) Valentine’s Day, everyone.
Friday, February 8, 2008
It's that time again
2:19am, and I'm finishing up a multidraft that really lives up to playing the system. I've got no caffeine in my system, folks. This is pure willpower. And Trident gum.
A few thoughts:
I gave up caffeine for Lent, and am committing to playing my clarinet an hour a day for five days a week. Woot. I'm thrilled. Derek (and most people, probably) think I'm crazy to give up caffeine, that it's necessary. True as that may be, we'll see if I can't change my lifestyle to make sure I don't need it.
I ended up writing my multidraft on Child Soldiers. It reminds me of this book called Warchild. You all should read it. It's long, but it's awesome.
I found a song by Blue October. It's from their third album (I think), and it's called "Independently Happy". I think it perfectly describes how I feel about living here. Go youtube it or something.
lyrics:
I feel that it's hard enough to say goodbye.
I feel there's the water. Should I sink or dive?
An empty plate, fill up my sentimental morning star.
I steal the art of putting truth in a lie.
I still want the girl that reall caught my eye.
But, she lives in Oklahoma City, far away from me.
Well there's an empty hope chest.
I quit the dope quest,
And remain independently happy.
I said I'm finally happy...happy...independently happy.
And I deal with the fact that I've forgotten the worst.
And I feel that my social behavior may seem somewhat unrehearsed.
But another page.
A sullen rage.
And I'll be back to my normal self.
I'm finally happy...happy...independently happy.
So I drive to the edge of my considerate plain.
And I apologize to the people I hurt on the way.
But I, I wipe the slate clean.
I kick the daydream,
And remain independently happy.
I said I'm finally happy...happy... independently happy.
A few thoughts:
I gave up caffeine for Lent, and am committing to playing my clarinet an hour a day for five days a week. Woot. I'm thrilled. Derek (and most people, probably) think I'm crazy to give up caffeine, that it's necessary. True as that may be, we'll see if I can't change my lifestyle to make sure I don't need it.
I ended up writing my multidraft on Child Soldiers. It reminds me of this book called Warchild. You all should read it. It's long, but it's awesome.
I found a song by Blue October. It's from their third album (I think), and it's called "Independently Happy". I think it perfectly describes how I feel about living here. Go youtube it or something.
lyrics:
I feel that it's hard enough to say goodbye.
I feel there's the water. Should I sink or dive?
An empty plate, fill up my sentimental morning star.
I steal the art of putting truth in a lie.
I still want the girl that reall caught my eye.
But, she lives in Oklahoma City, far away from me.
Well there's an empty hope chest.
I quit the dope quest,
And remain independently happy.
I said I'm finally happy...happy...independen
And I deal with the fact that I've forgotten the worst.
And I feel that my social behavior may seem somewhat unrehearsed.
But another page.
A sullen rage.
And I'll be back to my normal self.
I'm finally happy...happy...independen
So I drive to the edge of my considerate plain.
And I apologize to the people I hurt on the way.
But I, I wipe the slate clean.
I kick the daydream,
And remain independently happy.
I said I'm finally happy...happy... independently happy.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Can you keep a secret?
Yeah, it's a lame title. Doesn't resonate with me as much as my others do. Or maybe it does.
There's a man named Frank who asked people to mail them their secrets. Three years later his blog has over 122,000,000 hits (much more after tonight) and he's written three books with them. And every Sunday he publishes a dozen or so more new ones in his blog. The only condition is that it be a secret that the sender hasn't told anyone else, ever. It's called Post Secret. I thought more people knew about it, but I was talking to Kayla about it and she hadn't heard of it, so it may not be as widely known as I had originally thought. But apparently Car and Erica are also avid Post Secret followers.
To be blunt, I love this site. It's one of my internet addictions (along with Facebook, I-Am-Bored.com, and Myspace). And now, ladies and gents, the driving question. Why?
Why do I read them? Easy answer: to feel less alone. But that's so generic and boring. That's why anyone would read them. Not why I would read them.
I read them because I feel like I'm getting free access into someone's soul. Someone, somewhere, is opening up and letting me see a glimpse of who they are and some of their skeletons hiding in their closet. Their dirty laundry. It's like listening in on someone's confession. Total taboo, but at the same time, so tempting. At least with this you've got their permission, so it's ok.
It's like discovering a song by your favorite band (Blue October, "Razorblade"). It's like digging into that brand new book in that series you're following (Harry Potter, anyone?). Or when after Christmas vacation and writers strikes you get a new episode of your TV series (House!). It's like coming up for a new idea for that novel brewing in your head (The name of my heroine). Like the high you get when playing with your fellow musicians (I've written already on that idea).
The whole this is like a drug. So addicting, we just have to know what's next. You need your next high, your next fix. Although, I've never done drugs, so I should probably pick a different metaphor.
Well, my dears, I read because it brings company, I read because I'm a bit morbid and twisted, because it helps me feel more okay with myself and my own Post Secrets.
I read because I need that human element to survive.
Because it distracts me from that drunken cacophony outside my door in that scary world out there.
Because I get a glimpse of the state of society.
Because, when I come back later in the week, I see people helping strangers and lending a hand to the needy in the responses to the Post Secrets. A despairing woman expressed her feelings on a postcard of a train station. Another person asked to meet her there on Feb. 6 at 6pm, that he/she would be wearing a blue coat and that he/she was doing it to let her know she's not alone. Creepy? Most would think so. Me being the naturally gullible/trusting type, I find it beautiful.
So, while I munch on burnt popcorn, go check it out yourself.
www.postsecret.com
There's a man named Frank who asked people to mail them their secrets. Three years later his blog has over 122,000,000 hits (much more after tonight) and he's written three books with them. And every Sunday he publishes a dozen or so more new ones in his blog. The only condition is that it be a secret that the sender hasn't told anyone else, ever. It's called Post Secret. I thought more people knew about it, but I was talking to Kayla about it and she hadn't heard of it, so it may not be as widely known as I had originally thought. But apparently Car and Erica are also avid Post Secret followers.
To be blunt, I love this site. It's one of my internet addictions (along with Facebook, I-Am-Bored.com, and Myspace). And now, ladies and gents, the driving question. Why?
Why do I read them? Easy answer: to feel less alone. But that's so generic and boring. That's why anyone would read them. Not why I would read them.
I read them because I feel like I'm getting free access into someone's soul. Someone, somewhere, is opening up and letting me see a glimpse of who they are and some of their skeletons hiding in their closet. Their dirty laundry. It's like listening in on someone's confession. Total taboo, but at the same time, so tempting. At least with this you've got their permission, so it's ok.
It's like discovering a song by your favorite band (Blue October, "Razorblade"). It's like digging into that brand new book in that series you're following (Harry Potter, anyone?). Or when after Christmas vacation and writers strikes you get a new episode of your TV series (House!). It's like coming up for a new idea for that novel brewing in your head (The name of my heroine). Like the high you get when playing with your fellow musicians (I've written already on that idea).
The whole this is like a drug. So addicting, we just have to know what's next. You need your next high, your next fix. Although, I've never done drugs, so I should probably pick a different metaphor.
Well, my dears, I read because it brings company, I read because I'm a bit morbid and twisted, because it helps me feel more okay with myself and my own Post Secrets.
I read because I need that human element to survive.
Because it distracts me from that drunken cacophony outside my door in that scary world out there.
Because I get a glimpse of the state of society.
Because, when I come back later in the week, I see people helping strangers and lending a hand to the needy in the responses to the Post Secrets. A despairing woman expressed her feelings on a postcard of a train station. Another person asked to meet her there on Feb. 6 at 6pm, that he/she would be wearing a blue coat and that he/she was doing it to let her know she's not alone. Creepy? Most would think so. Me being the naturally gullible/trusting type, I find it beautiful.
So, while I munch on burnt popcorn, go check it out yourself.
www.postsecret.com
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Immortality!
"Twilight is the Poets awakening hour-
When all around is hushed and still,
It lends the mind suggestive power-
And makes the heart to thrill
The songsters matin as the day declines
The balmy softness of the summers breeze
The darker green that deepens on the vines
And clusters over the trees-
Feed man's poetic sense with love-
His soul with noble passion fires."
So, I found this written in pencil inside the back of "The Aldine Poets': Akenside", the name "Robert Martin, Nov. 28th 1874" written in the front. There's a whole bunch of other stuff that's been erased, too. I googled it, parts of it, and nothing came up. Check it out at the MSM Library - Call number PR 3311.A5 D8 1866 Copy 2.
I love finding stuff like this.
When all around is hushed and still,
It lends the mind suggestive power-
And makes the heart to thrill
The songsters matin as the day declines
The balmy softness of the summers breeze
The darker green that deepens on the vines
And clusters over the trees-
Feed man's poetic sense with love-
His soul with noble passion fires."
So, I found this written in pencil inside the back of "The Aldine Poets': Akenside", the name "Robert Martin, Nov. 28th 1874" written in the front. There's a whole bunch of other stuff that's been erased, too. I googled it, parts of it, and nothing came up. Check it out at the MSM Library - Call number PR 3311.A5 D8 1866 Copy 2.
I love finding stuff like this.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Wave goodbye to the hippies, kids!
Here we are again.
It's officially 12:05AM Pacific time by my laptop clock. Four hours until I need to 'get up' to get ready to drive to the airport at 4:30am to navigate through that labyrinth of airport security and catch my 6:00am flight to Salt Lake City, wait around for two hours and then fly to Baltimore and then get picked up and finally make it to school, hopefully before 7pm.
And, I hate this part. It just hurts, there's nothing good about it. The goodbyes to my friends here hurt. The nagging from my parents hurts. Missing my college buddies hurts.
I know I'll be back at the end of February. But that doesn't help much now. I'm half packed, and sick of packing. I'll finish after this note.
It's this in between that I hate. Washington's my home. I love the air always smells like pine, the tap water that tastes bottled, the hippies at the Portland Airport (they don't know it, but they've always been the first to welcome me home), my parents, my friends at all the Washington schools who molded me and got me ready to start to figure out who I'm supposed to be now that I'm in college. But Maryland, Mount Saint Mary's more like (since I really have been confined to the campus), is where I think I'm finding myself. I'm happier overall than I was in high school. I don't have to worry about being Catholic. It's only been a few months with my girls and my HL crew, but I don't know what I'd do without them. I miss you all so much when I'm home. You welcomed me with open arms and helped me bridge the culture gap between the two coasts (though I still haven't had Old Bay yet). I'm not sure if you'll ever know how much that means to me. And then there's Kayla, my one bridge between the two worlds. I love you. I can't do this without you. You know that.
God, I've got all this feeling churning in me, and neither will come out nor go away. I can't wait until I get to security at PDX, because then I'll be alone again and all this will settle down. Truly alone. I really like traveling alone. It lets you spend time introspecting and finding out who you really are. Because you've only got yourself to rely on. I mean, yeah, you've got your cell. But last time I flew I had no idea where it was, and I thought I had left it at school (turns out it was at the bottom of my bag. figures.). It was then, though, that I really felt alone for the first time. My lifelines really depended on my mental phone book and supply of quarters, and calling WA from Baltimore isn't cheap. I guess it all just gives you perspective.
People throw the phrase around way too much, but I'm going to use it anyway. I love you all, so much. I can't wait for this semester to start. Ha, I can't even see past the first week. It'll be nice to get back and put contacts in. Yeah, I left my other pairs at school, and so I've been wearing the glasses for the last two weeks. *eyeroll* Typical Katelyn.
Man, I wish someone was online right now. It's so lonely, this part. I tend to think about death during this part, too. I know, I know, Steinke's a morbid child. But wouldn't you? I mean, the planes could crash, and that'd be it. I'd be gone, and the only thing left here would be what people remember me as. It'd be so incredibly ironic: to die during the time of my life when I finally feel the most alive. Ha. HaHa.
But enough about that.
What's her name said "Only kindness matters." I disagree. Love and what we do for and because of it are the only things that matter. Love as in the mysterious force in the room in the Department of Mysteries. Love as in something that really doesn't die. Something transcendental.
But what do we know about that? We are all just a bunch of clueless...young adults...trying to find themselves and figure out what the hell is going on. And we screw up a lot of times, and oh yes, there will be drama, but it seems like we are learning from everything that happens, be it good or bad, just trying to come into our own. Maybe there's hope for us after all.
;-)
I think I'm going to go finish packing now.
P.S. Go Pack Go.
It's officially 12:05AM Pacific time by my laptop clock. Four hours until I need to 'get up' to get ready to drive to the airport at 4:30am to navigate through that labyrinth of airport security and catch my 6:00am flight to Salt Lake City, wait around for two hours and then fly to Baltimore and then get picked up and finally make it to school, hopefully before 7pm.
And, I hate this part. It just hurts, there's nothing good about it. The goodbyes to my friends here hurt. The nagging from my parents hurts. Missing my college buddies hurts.
I know I'll be back at the end of February. But that doesn't help much now. I'm half packed, and sick of packing. I'll finish after this note.
It's this in between that I hate. Washington's my home. I love the air always smells like pine, the tap water that tastes bottled, the hippies at the Portland Airport (they don't know it, but they've always been the first to welcome me home), my parents, my friends at all the Washington schools who molded me and got me ready to start to figure out who I'm supposed to be now that I'm in college. But Maryland, Mount Saint Mary's more like (since I really have been confined to the campus), is where I think I'm finding myself. I'm happier overall than I was in high school. I don't have to worry about being Catholic. It's only been a few months with my girls and my HL crew, but I don't know what I'd do without them. I miss you all so much when I'm home. You welcomed me with open arms and helped me bridge the culture gap between the two coasts (though I still haven't had Old Bay yet). I'm not sure if you'll ever know how much that means to me. And then there's Kayla, my one bridge between the two worlds. I love you. I can't do this without you. You know that.
God, I've got all this feeling churning in me, and neither will come out nor go away. I can't wait until I get to security at PDX, because then I'll be alone again and all this will settle down. Truly alone. I really like traveling alone. It lets you spend time introspecting and finding out who you really are. Because you've only got yourself to rely on. I mean, yeah, you've got your cell. But last time I flew I had no idea where it was, and I thought I had left it at school (turns out it was at the bottom of my bag. figures.). It was then, though, that I really felt alone for the first time. My lifelines really depended on my mental phone book and supply of quarters, and calling WA from Baltimore isn't cheap. I guess it all just gives you perspective.
People throw the phrase around way too much, but I'm going to use it anyway. I love you all, so much. I can't wait for this semester to start. Ha, I can't even see past the first week. It'll be nice to get back and put contacts in. Yeah, I left my other pairs at school, and so I've been wearing the glasses for the last two weeks. *eyeroll* Typical Katelyn.
Man, I wish someone was online right now. It's so lonely, this part. I tend to think about death during this part, too. I know, I know, Steinke's a morbid child. But wouldn't you? I mean, the planes could crash, and that'd be it. I'd be gone, and the only thing left here would be what people remember me as. It'd be so incredibly ironic: to die during the time of my life when I finally feel the most alive. Ha. HaHa.
But enough about that.
What's her name said "Only kindness matters." I disagree. Love and what we do for and because of it are the only things that matter. Love as in the mysterious force in the room in the Department of Mysteries. Love as in something that really doesn't die. Something transcendental.
But what do we know about that? We are all just a bunch of clueless...young adults...trying to find themselves and figure out what the hell is going on. And we screw up a lot of times, and oh yes, there will be drama, but it seems like we are learning from everything that happens, be it good or bad, just trying to come into our own. Maybe there's hope for us after all.
;-)
I think I'm going to go finish packing now.
P.S. Go Pack Go.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
I'm in a post-grungy and sunsets mood
((From my Facebook Notes...))
So I was Facebook stalking a few of my friends, going beyond the usual list and came across an incredibly gorgeous picture of one of my friends watching a sunset. The sunset was beautiful over what could have been a desert, and it made me think of that time on the last Mission Trip where a bunch of us walked up all over a few really good hills (you east coast people might call them mountains). The sun began to set, and you could see out into the desert-y rolling hillside, and behind you you could see a gorgeous, luscious green valley. It really was a moment of paradise. I'd describe it more, but every description of a sunset always falls short and never seems to be as meaningful to those witnessing it second hand. So I'll spare you the details.
I love sunsets. They're one of my favorite things. Ever. I prefer them to sunrises, but granted I've seen about a hundred times as many sunsets as sunrises. Although I have to admit, watching the sun rise when I fly back to Maryland is pretty sweet. I'd rather watch a sunset, though. Maybe it's because I like the night, the dark, and the stars. Could that be linked to my love of the scary? The morbid, the dark, why Halloween is my favorite holiday? I think both have the same root. I'm not sure what that is, though. It's something in who I am. Naturally attracted to the dark side of things. I suppose some people would find that disturbing...I know some people think that part of me kinda is. And I don't blame them, I'm pretty sure they still want to associate with me in spite of it. If not, screw you. Good Katelyn will keep on pretending that everything's fine, and Bad Katelyn doesn't care one way or another and will probably bad mouth you in her sleep.
Maybe I have some sort of black hole in me. Like, it could be something missing (the Jesus shaped hole! Maybe...), or it could be a lot of things. It could be a lack of self confidence and esteem. It could be lack of comfort with who I am. Yeah, maybe. If I could only figure out exactly, precisely, undeniably why I am uncomfortable with myself, then maybe I can cure it. I'm not sure if I've actually been curing it or have just gotten better at dealing with it and covering it up. I suppose it doesn't make a different to the outside world; the affect is the same, right? But it matters to me. Maybe that's a good place to go. Figuring out what matters to me. It's sounds so simple, so obvious. Well of course I know what matters to me! Or do I? In the larger sense, yes. But in the little things? No. Ha. comfort with who I am. I'm trying to figure out who I am, so maybe that's a fluid thing right now. Or maybe it's just obscured.
Another thought. Why am I pouring out my soul to Facebook? Lord knows far more people can read it than on my Myspace. Especially because notes don't get published too often on Facebook. But see, that's the thing. That's the one thing I can actually say that I don't care what others think about me. Maybe it's because I can be so completely and brutally honest with myself and do some real soul searching, that if anyone blows it off or takes it and tries to desecrate it, that it's just stupid and wrong to do so. There's a taboo on killing parts of someone's soul. So my dears, read, comment as you like.
I saw Dave, my old boss, today. Talked with him and Max (a manager) for about an hour. Dave thinks that I'm still far too high strung. So that's my new year's resolution - try to lower my stringing. The way I see it, I'm not as happy as I probably could be being high strung, type A, whatever (although if i'm type A this sucks, because I don't have any of the organizational or perfectionistic benefits). So yeah. Oh, and apparently I need to be a kid.
Hmmm. In summary, I just discovered that my favorite music genre is post-grunge. Grunge, seriously? I guess they also call grunge Seattle Sound. Go figure. But I'll still listen to anything.
So I was Facebook stalking a few of my friends, going beyond the usual list and came across an incredibly gorgeous picture of one of my friends watching a sunset. The sunset was beautiful over what could have been a desert, and it made me think of that time on the last Mission Trip where a bunch of us walked up all over a few really good hills (you east coast people might call them mountains). The sun began to set, and you could see out into the desert-y rolling hillside, and behind you you could see a gorgeous, luscious green valley. It really was a moment of paradise. I'd describe it more, but every description of a sunset always falls short and never seems to be as meaningful to those witnessing it second hand. So I'll spare you the details.
I love sunsets. They're one of my favorite things. Ever. I prefer them to sunrises, but granted I've seen about a hundred times as many sunsets as sunrises. Although I have to admit, watching the sun rise when I fly back to Maryland is pretty sweet. I'd rather watch a sunset, though. Maybe it's because I like the night, the dark, and the stars. Could that be linked to my love of the scary? The morbid, the dark, why Halloween is my favorite holiday? I think both have the same root. I'm not sure what that is, though. It's something in who I am. Naturally attracted to the dark side of things. I suppose some people would find that disturbing...I know some people think that part of me kinda is. And I don't blame them, I'm pretty sure they still want to associate with me in spite of it. If not, screw you. Good Katelyn will keep on pretending that everything's fine, and Bad Katelyn doesn't care one way or another and will probably bad mouth you in her sleep.
Maybe I have some sort of black hole in me. Like, it could be something missing (the Jesus shaped hole! Maybe...), or it could be a lot of things. It could be a lack of self confidence and esteem. It could be lack of comfort with who I am. Yeah, maybe. If I could only figure out exactly, precisely, undeniably why I am uncomfortable with myself, then maybe I can cure it. I'm not sure if I've actually been curing it or have just gotten better at dealing with it and covering it up. I suppose it doesn't make a different to the outside world; the affect is the same, right? But it matters to me. Maybe that's a good place to go. Figuring out what matters to me. It's sounds so simple, so obvious. Well of course I know what matters to me! Or do I? In the larger sense, yes. But in the little things? No. Ha. comfort with who I am. I'm trying to figure out who I am, so maybe that's a fluid thing right now. Or maybe it's just obscured.
Another thought. Why am I pouring out my soul to Facebook? Lord knows far more people can read it than on my Myspace. Especially because notes don't get published too often on Facebook. But see, that's the thing. That's the one thing I can actually say that I don't care what others think about me. Maybe it's because I can be so completely and brutally honest with myself and do some real soul searching, that if anyone blows it off or takes it and tries to desecrate it, that it's just stupid and wrong to do so. There's a taboo on killing parts of someone's soul. So my dears, read, comment as you like.
I saw Dave, my old boss, today. Talked with him and Max (a manager) for about an hour. Dave thinks that I'm still far too high strung. So that's my new year's resolution - try to lower my stringing. The way I see it, I'm not as happy as I probably could be being high strung, type A, whatever (although if i'm type A this sucks, because I don't have any of the organizational or perfectionistic benefits). So yeah. Oh, and apparently I need to be a kid.
Hmmm. In summary, I just discovered that my favorite music genre is post-grunge. Grunge, seriously? I guess they also call grunge Seattle Sound. Go figure. But I'll still listen to anything.
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