Monthly Archives: October 2013

The Human Spirit: Just Hold Up the Bird

There is nothing more crippling to my creativity than when the wifi fails me, which is, on average, at least every other time I use the computer.  Many a time I have lost drafts of things I have written because I have trusted WordPress (a blog site) to house my documents I’ve written, but then the wifi goes down and my posts are lost in the black hole that is the Internet.

I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that every time I lose a post I come back with a hunger and write am determined to write a new, better, faster, stronger piece; no six million dollar blog post story here.  More likely than not, I get very angry at the world, think about throwing my computer at things, settle for writing a blog post that doesn’t have nearly the energy as the first one, then seek out an uninhabited corner to sulk in.  There’s just something about having everything you just worked on torn down in an instant that is infinitely depressing, but you know what?  It certainly doesn’t have to be.  Stay with me as I resolve the discordant notes in this post, I promise I’ll end on a much less ‘cut your wrists’ note.

The depression and anger only come because you allow them; they are not unavoidable by any means.  As exhibited in my own life by the rare moments when I have a post stolen from me right as I’m trying to post it, and instead of pitching a fit, I have the energy to say, “you know what, no.  I’m going to come back and write this piece better than I did the first time, damn it”, and I do.  Those moments of human triumph are rare but enlightening.  There is a perverted beauty in witnessing a human who is shat on by the world shrug the excrement off, hold up their middle finger to the world, and push on with a vengeance.  The ultimate beauty in the world’s shit: every human being is capable of overcoming it if they so decide to.

While I wish the wifi would never fail, I can appreciate how it challenges me as a writer and human being.  Quite obviously I have extended the purpose of this post to much more than just my unfortunate experience with Clemson wifi, so I feel obligated to include a hackneyed but true cliché about humanity: everyone has the ability to tap into the boundless reservoir of the human spirit, and once you do, you’ll be surprised at what you can overcome.

Because that was actually much more cliché than I was anticipating: the next time the world shits on you, hold your middle finger up, and push on.

That’s better.

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October 31, 2013 · 4:05 pm

Pure Unadulterated Hatred

I’m currently sitting on the ground in my dorm that has an ample amount of chairs, with my bare heels under the backside of my computer, so that I can type without getting carpal tunnel.  My back is three degrees from being arched at a right angle, and if I don’t straighten it within the next 20 minutes I’m pretty positive I’ll be a hunchback forever.  I can already feel the muscles mal-forming, and yet I still sit stubbornly, typical me.  As I look down at my ankles and feet, I’m slightly disgusted with myself because I see the scars from the many, many battles I would often fight against mosquito bites and lose.  The mosquito bites said, “don’t worry about the future.  Don’t worry about how gross these scars will look, just itch us.  You’ll like it”, and I would always think I was being so strong willed when I wouldn’t succumb to the calls of the histamines, but every night, just after I would drift out of consciousness the bites would lure sleep Oona with their Siren like call, and take in the sick pleasure as I nearly ripped my leg off by itching so violently.  Sleep Oona is a noble and peaceful creature, but the mosquitoes bring out the worst in her, they transform her into a self-destructive monster.  Mosquitoes are good for exactly three things: carrying diseases and giving them to the people that need them least, being a very unsatisfying food for insects that have uses, and making any part of a human that they can reach itch like hell (especially o- blood type, my damned curse).  Did you notice how none of the things that I said that mosquitoes do well aren’t very good things at all?  It’s because I hate them, and they are useless with their little, evasive, gross bodies, and their ill will. 

All of those emotions come out of me whenever I so much catch a peripheral glance at the darkened discolored spots on my legs.  I am constantly reminded that no matter how small mosquitoes may be, they’ll always have power over me because they’re assholes with histamines that they use for the evil purpose of taking over my unconscious body.  

One day I’ll need to rid myself of this hatred and not allow mosquitoes to rule over me or my unconscious body, but that is going to be one day in the far future when I am nearing the end of my stay at a monastery, so for today I’ll just settle for,

god, I hate mosquitoes. 

            

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Peace in Self

Why is it that people think you need other people to have fun?

Think about it.  Do you feel like being alone is fun?

Alright, so what I’m about to do is completely break down the belief that being by yourself isn’t fun.  Let me first begin by saying that you should be your own best friend because you are the only person that will ever truly know you.  Right about now you might be saying, “hey Oona, that sounds slightly schizophrenic”, and I’ll admit that, initially, it does sound kind of strange to be your own best friend, but once you realize the importance of truly loving yourself then it comes naturally.  Also, let me clarify that when I say, “your own best friend”, I don’t mean constantly talk and laugh with yourself.  The type of friend you are to yourself is much more pure than being based on conversational basis.  You know you.  The two “friends” are amalgamated entities that don’t need clarification of stances, reasoning, or emotion.

So once you learn to have fun with yourself (shame on you if you perverted the meaning of that sentence) then you will find true happiness and meaning.  You will no longer be dependent on outside sources to feel what you want (and don’t want) to feel.

I’m sure I’ll come back to this topic again in the future.

Also, every night is a best friend slumber party! Just to end on a schizophrenic note.

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The Quintessential Coffee Shop

The stoner is here, sitting in the corner eating an Asiago pretzel dangerously quick, unintentionally making me tense for a possible rescue.  He takes his first sip of his White Mocha, and from the scrunched up look on his face, he just burnt his tongue, but quickly recovers thinking that no one saw.  His wear is too big for his body, and his hat is about to fall off his head, but he’s content with the burnt tongue and useless placement of hat on his unkempt hair.

A girl runs up to the counter, yelling, “papa, papa”, as if she were some reincarnation of an Oliver Twist type (who I picture yelling papa, which is kind of sick considering he was an orphan).  She wears a cape that once looks like it might have been used to warm bodies on couches, it reminds me of the contradiction of winter and warmth.  She is happy in the bookstore/coffee shop combo, all the things she loves are here.  She is confident with her cape wrapped around her scrawny shoulders, glasses halfway down her nose, hair cut into a bob; the kind every girl has at one point in her life, cowlicks and all.

Two older individuals come in with two of what I assume to be their grand-daughters.  The seniors are caucasian, the grand-daughters are asian.  They all sit at a small two foot diameter table with each other while eating communal pieces of cheese cake and sipping each other’s hot drinks.  They read their respective magazines, chuckling and sharing every once in a while.  They laugh and interact occasionally, but for the most part they keep to themselves, knowing that their connection doesn’t require the constant reinforcement of conversation, knowing that each other’s company is enough.

I could go on for pages.

There is no type-cast of the type of person that feels at home in a coffee shop, but there is the quintessential coffee shop: a place where anyone can feel comfortable.  This is the ultimate place of respite with books always near, drinks and sweets steps away, whatever necessary to soothe the unquiet soul.  The atmosphere is never disruptive to thought, always conducive, even being layered with the chat that melts together around you.  We’re all here in this coffee shop for our own reasons, and while we look different on the outside: old, young, zealous, relaxed, we all share one commonality.

We’re in this coffee shop because we all found something desirable in being here, not because it’s a fun or exciting place, because in reality it is only a place that serves food and drink at semi-affordable prices.  We’re all in here because it means something to us to be in this coffee shop.  A desirable feeling or state is evoked that need not have any correlation with our outward appearance.

The microcosm of the world inherent in the existence of the coffee shop is one of the few environments that shows even slight evidence of the underlying connective state of the human race.

When inside, you are one of a whole.  But when you exit, again, you are one out of a whole.

And so I sit, grasping onto the bit of tangible connectiveness in the atmosphere slowly dissipating around me, waiting for 10 o’ clock to come when I am booted out.  Out of the coffee shop.

Out of the whole.

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Language Barrier

Have you ever been sitting, standing, laying, what have you, and heard voices that you desperately wanted to be in english, but they just weren’t.  You keep listening, expecting to hear an english word thrown in there somewhere, but no metaphorical (or otherwise) bones are thrown to your non-bi-lingual self.  You keep listening to the foreign tongue, there are laughs traded between the speakers, and you want to laugh too, you want to chuckle along because you know you would enjoy the joke, you have a good sense of humor you’ve been told.  Then out of nowhere, the baby that is with the individuals you’re eavesdropping on speaks the only words you recognize, “I don’t want any”.  You have no idea what the baby is referring to because the mother responds in her slippery quick Spanish/Italian/Gaelic/Africana(?),  but you find solace in the baby’s words.  “Yes baby, I understand you”, you think, “right now, baby, we are one, connected by a language that shows commonality in our upbringing”.  But then the baby’s words are gone, they’ve faded away into little grumpy mumbles that mean nothing to you, yet another language that is alien to your ears; and you’re alone again, ignorant of the words being spoken by the individuals separated from you by just a few feet of space, yet in such a different world.  You try for one last ditch attempt to understand any of the words being spoken, even going so far as delving into your three years of high school Latin background to piece together some semblance of conversation.  “Is, I definitely heard is”, you think confidently.  Maybe this language barrier isn’t as crippling as you thought, “we’re not so different you and I”, you think, gazing wistfully in their direction.  Then one of them looks away from their talking partner and their eyes meet your own, you smile, knowing that they understand what you are thinking, that they understand the connection that you have realized.  Then the one you lock eyes with looks at their comrade and say something that you don’t understand (maybe Russian, now?) and you expect it was something endearing, but then you hear laughs coming from their cruel little mouths.  Your confidence leaves as quick as it came.  You look toward the baby in the hopes that it understands, but it is laughing right along with the adults, with a mischievous glint in its little bilingual, traitor eyes that shows that you were betrayed.  There was no connection, the baby played you like a mistreated xylophone, metal mallets on wooden keys.  The baby’s overarching comprehension of its surroundings made you feel naive, ignorant, filled with an unknowing sadness.

Was the baby truly the baby,

or was I?

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Post-Attended-A-Clemson-Game Oona

Well  it’s been a while since the game, but in my defense my last few days have been ridiculously unfortunate.  So here it is, Oona 2.0, just because of a Clemson football game.

But not really.

Going to the football game was fun because I was with one of my bitches, but by no means was it some sort of transcendent experience that made me realize Clemson was the place that I really needed to be.

When it comes down to it, honestly, it was football.  There is a certain amount of care I can generate for sports as a whole, and going to a live college game didn’t change that.  I will say that when I was at the game, I acted like a huge, douchey, sports fan girl, just for the hell of it, but for no other reason having to do with pride or anything of the like.

So I made it known that I enjoyed the game, but the game itself did not change me.  About a day or two after the game though, I did feel a slightly stronger sense of belonging to Clemson, I started to see more good in where I am.  In no way in my mind did I think that my new bit of happiness was tied with the game, but hell, maybe it was and I just absorbed a little bit of school spirit by being around 100 thousand people rooting for the same team that I was jokingly rooting for.  Who knows?

But I am a bit happier with where I am, and to what that can be attributed to, I’m not sure.  But what the hell…

Go tigers.

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Pre-Attended-A-Clemson-Football-Game Oona

Life is alright.  It’s not great.  It’s not bad.

School is ok, could be better.

Clemson isn’t my favorite place ever, but it’s a decent area.

Let’s see how my perspective changes on the following after the FSU game because I’ve been told that it will change everything.  Completely.

We’ll see.

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