Heigh Ho

Its off to Des Moines we go! I'm trying to fly home for spring break, and thats about the only airport that can get me there. Seats to Denver are a very rare commodity everywhere this time of year! A four hour drive for the chance to not drive 14? I can go for that. Lets hope they have some reasonably priced long term parking!

Which Thomas?

I'm getting Confirmed on Thursday! It is time to celebrate. And also time for a trip to the confessional!

Girl Scout Night at the Mall of America

This Friday, Minnesota suffered from a snowstorm. It wasn't a bad snowstorm; I've driven in worse back home in the mountains. It was bad enough, apparently to warrant the closing of campus at noon, and for MNDOT to advise against all travel on highways in Nicollet, Sibley, Blue Earth, and Le Sueur Counties. Class being cancelled was the only bright spot in my day. I didn't have to ditch Spanish to drive up to the cities.

My best friend from home was scheduled to fly in Friday night. Her plane was to have taken off at 3, and landed at six. With all that damn snow, reduced visibility, and poor driving conditions, her plane was delayed until 5:30. And then until 11:30. Thankfully, they were able to board at 8 and take off at 9. That way, I didn't have to wait as long.

I left campus around 2:30, as I wasn't sure how long it would take me to drive the 80 miles to the cities in the "horrible weather." The roads weren't bad, I took it slow, I have illegal snow tires, and like I said, I've driven in worse. I got up to the cities by 4. Thinking I'd only have to kill an hour or so before heading out to the airport, I stopped by the Mall of America to find a coffee shop and maybe get some homework done.

I wound up spending close to 7 hours there.

I went to the Apple store, and looked at laptops. I went to Caribou Coffee, bought a hot chocolate, and tried to read my book. I stopped by the Yankee Candle Company, and bought a candle. I talked to my friend for at least 3 hours, as she was marooned in DIA and I was marooned in the MOA. I went to the official Mall of America Gift store and bought three model cars with the MOA logo on them, an official MOA candle for my sister, and a postcard for my boss. I ate at the food court. Since it was a Friday, and Lent isn't over yet, I bought Long John Silver's instead of Panda Express, and nearly got myself sick on the grease of it all, while coming down with a mild case of heartburn. By this time, I had walked through the amusement park section of the mall many many times and noticed the signs that said "Camp Snoopy will close at 9:30 for a private party." And so, to get from the East Neighborhood to the West Neighborhood (or maybe it was the south to the north. Or with my sense of direction, from the west to the south) I once again walked through Camp Snoopy, and began to notice the Girl Scouts. Starbucks being my next stop, I was quite depressed to find the comfy chairs occupied by a troop of Girl Scouts and their screaming mothers. But they left after I made snide remarks about loud and obnoxious people into my cell phone. So I and my Chantico settled into a comfy chair and read for a while.

Then Starbucks closed. It was 10:00 after all, and the rest of the mall was either closed for the night or packed with screaming brownies. (The bars in the mall were open until 2am, but bars are not where I like to go for a little bit of piece and quiet while reading.) I wandered around quite a bit more. I couldn't remember where I had left my car. But I finally left, and this ended my long incarceration in the American Gulag. Have I ever mentioned that I hate malls?

My friend's plane landed at midnight, we got back to the dorm at 1:30. The next night I drove her back for a 7:00 flight. She got to spend less than 24 hours here because of that DAMN Snowstorm!

According to the MSP website, they can handle a famous Minnesnowta storm expertly. If that be the case, why did they close the airport for a while last Friday?

I Went and Saw a Play

Last Wednesday, I went to see a play in The Cities with my friend Jon. The Guthrie Theatre was putting on Shakespeare's As You Like It, and the school got cheap tickets and provided a bus for the journey. There was a fiasco with the bus, mainly that it broke down, and they had to send another one, which meant we left campus much later than intended. But once that was all taken care of, the 10 or 11 of us boarded the very large charter bus and departed.

The Guthrie is a very modern theatre. From all appearances, one would draw this conclusion. The architecture of the place is very very modern looking; I would doubt there are many straight lines, right angles, or other signs of conventional architecture about the place. The plays put on there are similarly inclined. Though one usually expects to find Ganymede (ironically the name of our college server, or one of them) in a medieval forest, this time we encountered him/her in a psychedelic forest of splendid color, tie died shirts, and amazing sunglasses. One wouldn't really have thought this was Shakespeare. The "thou's," "prithee's," and "soft's" gave the authorship away, but the rest of it seemed more lively and realistic than all those Shakespeare plays we read in high school.

I didn't know Shakespeare wrote songs either. He did, Jon checked. They are all in the text of the play. But, we agreed, he didn't write them very well. The fact that no music was ever officially written for them doesn't help either. Thus, we heard some wonderful singing, and we also heard some less than remarkable stuff. I took objection to the Whoopee Goldberg figure that pranced around the stage with a microphone. I did enjoy, however, the chant "Dummy Duke Dummy Duke." It reminded me of sophomore year of high school "Stupid Frank, Stupid Frank." Poor Gamby. Oh well. My sister is having problems with him now too. Perhaps the idiot just can't get along with Republican Progeny..."

That was a tangent. I enjoyed the Guthrie, though it didn't seem as professional or homey as the Temple Hoyne Buel of the DCPA. There is something to be said for being a patron of the arts, and there is pleasure to be extracted from seeing and not just reading Shakespeare. I got back and the night was gone, but that is a sign of a good play. And I was able to make up the viewing of Konchalovsky's The Inner Circle for Modern Russia tonight, so I did not suffer much by that nocturnal excursion.

Oh, and they had some really good chocolate cake stuff there. We ate it at intermission. Thanks Jon!

In the MOA

I'm in the Mall of America, at the Apple store, looking at laptops. And you can get online while test drving a 12 inch powerbook, among other things... How cool is that?!

All Hail Professor T!

He served us from a big platter that was carried around the room like a professional waiter. And we took a test, a big essay test. I wrote about the one word that described the 18th Century. My word was "Bipolar" and Jon's word was "Futility." Can you say, "we really like studying Western Civ"?

I Did Laundry

and clean socks can't fix broken spirits.

Hacking away at the list

I finished the paper, that big bullshit paper, on Aristotle and lots of other dudes. It was very boring. I can't belive I was given such an asinine prompt at the college level.

I am still out of socks. So to speak. That means I will have to dig into my store of ankle socks. You don't wear ankle socks in winter in Minnesota. Especially not when there's supposed to be 8-10 inches of snow falling sometime soon; the stuff that goes up your pant legs just isn't pleasant. I still haven't found the laundry room.

Now i just must read lots of books, study for lots of tests, and write lots of papers. Go me! Not really!

A Laundry List

I am out of socks! Oh darn... I still don't know where the laundry room in this building is.
But more than laundry, here is a list of what I need to do.

1. Write big bullshit paper about Aristotle that compares (bad sign, very bad sign! No original thought involved) him to lots of other stuff, and is 5-6 pages. Due Weds.

2. Study for test about Western Civ (very broad and boring topic) that will be very big test and happen for 2 hours on friday.

3. Study for test on Modern Russia, prepared by same guy who makes Western Civ test... to occur sometime next week.

4. Write 5 page essay on "place" and "home" to be turned in before spring break.

5. Find time to watch Russian movie I will be not seeing on Wednesday becuase I am going to see very good play in very good place with very good friend.

6. Email Lenzini and figure out how to defend the priesthood to protestants, since I can't justify stuff by saying "its just right" or "how could it be any other way?"

7. Clean room so that best friend who visits this weekend will recieve favorable impression of my 8x10 jail cell with a real windowsill and closets. Yes, CLOSETS! HOORAY CLOSETS!

Fact

According to David Remnick, who wrote the book "Lenin's Tomb,"

"The leading cause of house fires in the Soviet Union was television sets that exploded spontanously."

I'm glad to live in the United S of A, where we don't have to deal with Russian Televisions. All of our TV's come from Japan.

Hmm... Sounds a little too close to Russia to be comfortable....

Oh wait, I don't own a TV!

Lighting

The rope lights are up. It was very dangerous to put them up, as they were put up near the ceiling. Use was made of hooks, and much clear packing tape, which has proved itself to be most unreliable. The one who put up the rope lights is worried, for the rope lights are two different sizes. That the rope lights were purchased at two different times is the root of this problem. The smaller of the rope lights are brighter, but also are much warmer to the touch. The small rope lights, with their high kinetic energy, could possibly set one's bed on fire, the one who put up the rope lights worries. But the rope lights are unplugged right now, so there will be no fire. The one who put up the rope lights is hungry and curses the fact that the sections of the cafeteria with good, warm food have closed already. The one who put up the rope lights is hungry, and will nevertheless go to the cafeteria to get a wrap. Good bye.

Injury and Ire

I spent a great deal of yesterday afternoon text messaging. With all the messages of that sort I send weekly, one would assume that I would have developed a callous or something. Yet, after yesteday afternoon, where I probably wrote 60 messages, I seem to have developed a blister on my thumb. Ouch! I like to use that thumb. And next, I will go to class, a class in which idiots butcher the Bible, and protest does nothing. Of course we're allowed to have an opinion. But there are right and wrong opinions, and the only determining factor is the teacher's wrath. I can't wait to get back to a Catholic school, where the popular push for "tolerance" has not yet undermined teaching in all classrooms like it has in these wishy-washy homes of heretics, such as this Southern Minnesotan 360 acre pagan community. For more rants on this worthless class, see Jon's Blog.

An Interruption

I was sitting in the Caf tonight, writing an essay due tomorrow for my "Reading and Writing Essays" class when Sarah and Sarah came in and sat down, destroying my concentration and train of thought. Of course, I couldn't tell them to go away, and it wouldn't've mattered if I had. My plane of thought was gone. Now I sit and try to finish my Bartonesque essay on the "homing" qualities DIA has for me, and I can't. I really wish I could. With what I had going, I was pretty sure I could soon write a book to rival Barton Sutter's "Cold Comfort" which describes Duluth as a place to heal his broken soul. My book would be called "Plane Comfort" and would describe various international airports that can heal my broken soul starting with DEN, ORD, and GBR. But I have lost my inspiration. Woe is me!

What I Need

It’s been almost 4 years since I started, and stopped, in-taking paroxetine hydrochloride regularly. I think it might be time to start again. But I am not going to ask for an expert opinion. Oh no, that costs time and money. But I miss being left handed, and boxing southpaw, and shooting righty. Perhaps if I were able to use my sinistral capabilities more fully once again, I would be more motivated to finish my schoolwork, to read for pleasure, and to go to work. Or to the caf. Or to write letters. Or call people. Or buy a new windshield wiper motor for my aging, screeching car.

What the Hey!

Yesterday it was in the 60's, and it felt uncomfortable to wear long sleeves of any sort. Today its cold enough to find flurries of snow on your way to class, and to freeze one's hand walking between buildings. Mother Nature in Minnesota is BiPolar!

Points finger and laughs...

Sohre had a fire drill last night, around 12:30. That's when I was trying to fall asleep and it was starting to get cold. Glad it wasn't my dorm!

Its official

As of today, two of my teachers have dropped the "f bomb" in class.

To begin with, I would like to have it made clear that ones vocabulary in the classroom is not a basis for judgement and effective teaching. In fact, in the first scenario mentioned, the teacher who surprised us all with his language on the first day of class has turned out to be one of the most passionate and knowledgeable teachers I have. Conversely, the guy today, who has waited until now to use such a word is a poor teacher, independant of his vocabulary.

I guess this is one of the differences between my Catholic High School and Lutheran College. Religion aside, there is more respect, more leeway, and more mediocrity. Getting lost in the system, it seems, can hide the gems. But it can also camoflauge the less appealing. Judging from past experience, I think the Religion department here is very much a good cover and smokescreen.

Atheism and devalualizationizing, two defining characteristics of the 21st century (as long as you don't compare it to any other century.) How on Earth do some of these people worm their way into a college environment?

Isms...

-The nineteenth century was an age of -isms. In history today we took hold of our learning without doing some silly little inconvenient group project and went around the classroom naming off all/some/most of the –isms that defined the period 1815-1917. In this activity, I learned that “anarchism” is a word. {Since Spell-Check acknowledges it, I can’t contest.} Some of the -isms? You know them. You just don’t think about them.

Socialism

Nationalism

>National Socialism

Romanticism

Nihilism

Anarchism

Communism

Materialism

Patriotism

Impressionism

Expressionism

Industrialism

If you take my teacher’s words to heart, people should be able to come up with about 60 terms (around the class twice.) We were spared, and only had to go around the classroom once.

So, the next time you think of, create, or participate in an –ism of some sort, think of the 19^th century, which most probably gave that new –ism to the world. Or at least the idea of it. Existentialism only had its roots in the 19^th century. The rest came later.

Nagging Thoughts

It’s been a recent acquisition, but the thought "I'm gonna have to deal with this for the rest of my life" has been circling through my head like vultures. Whether it be a move, a class failed, a car crash, beginning or ending a friendship, forgetting to send a card to a close friend and cancer patient before they die, or being fired from a job, events will have a life-long impact. And I am just realizing this. It happens to everyone, I suppose, but why does it have to hit me now? I'm just a college first year, and I am much too young for this. But still, why do I keep wondering whether, upon looking back on my life, I will want to say "You idiot, you should have tried harder in Spanish." "You fool, why did you let that friendship die?" "You quitter, you should have toughed it out at that school!” Or will I want to say, "That'll do self, that'll do." "You really came through there." "I never thought I'd see you doing this well."
I went through my midlife crisis Junior year of high school. What is this, the "Two years after mid-life crisis Crisis?" Or maybe it takes getting hit by a locomotive called change (and some inhaled asbestos) to make one acutely aware of such depressing insights.
I am going to leave now and continue my efforts to suppress my coughing and hope that my lungs stay in my chest all night. I'm running out of PowerAde and cough drops.

There's something about Wahlstrom

People always rag on Wahlstrom Hall. The builing is condemned. There is asbestos in the walls, and the college doesn't have the greatest desire to do anything about it. The rooms are tiny. 10x8 if you count the space filled by the closets. It's impossible to navigate. Everything is staggered and the half floors start and stop with random stairts. I still haven't found the laundry room or the computer lab. It's all in the basement. Somewhere. Being that the building is built into a hill, another element of confusion is added, as only half the basement is inhabited. I chose not to live there. And I am glad of my first floor room. If I were in the basement, I'd still be wandering around trying to move in.

No matter how much people degrade that builing, I think it is good for some people. On moving in, I have discovered people who have chosen to live there for 3 years, or more even. The section idea, 6 rooms around a common room, works well. You have friends, you have space to live, and there is a couch outside your door to escape to and socialize with. And despite the tiny rooms, there is a greater feeling of home and welcome. Its YOUR room. And the building knows that. There's less noise. Fewer parties. Drunk people can't even find your section's stairs. Socialization occurs outside of the room. Put bluntly: The building, this old 1940's military dorm with all of its quirks, nurtures people. Its the kind of care that I search for. I should have lived there from the beginning. And since it is going to be closed and torn down after this year, I am more than grateful that I have been given this one semester to be a Walhstromite.

A Parting Gift

My roommate has had a cold/flu bug for four weeks. I've miraculously been able to avoid catching it. Yet, yesterday, the day I moved out, I managed to come down with something. Perhaps she tried really hard to infect me as a farewell gift?

I really hate to do this. Not only am I using a straight outside source to say what I want to, I am bowing to pop culture and using a silly song. Usually when I rely on other people's words, I'm integrating them with mine -making them my own. But sometimes, a song just says it all. So I'm sorry, but this is more of what I am feeling than I care to put into my own words.

"Don't Speak"
by No Doubt

You and me
We used to be together
Every day together always

I really feel
I'm losing my best friend
I can't believe
This could be the end

It looks as though you're letting go
And if it's real,
Well I don't want to know

Don't speak
I know just what you're saying
So please stop explaining
Don't tell me 'cause it hurts
Don't speak
I know what you're thinking
I don't need your reasons
Don't tell me 'cause it hurts

Our memories
They can be inviting
But some are altogether
Mighty frightening

As we die, both you and I
With my head in my hands
I sit and cry


It's all ending
I gotta stop pretending who we are...
You and me
I can see us dying ... are we?

The Pain of Euphoria

What goes up must come down.

Gravity: Not only does it work, it’s the law.

They say that a full moon is so powerful that it can affect people’s moods and the balance of chemicals in their brain. 19 years ago, I was born on a full moon. This year, my birthday was the day before the full moon. It was so beautiful that night, rising large and red, looming over the Denver skyline. That was 5 days ago. As the moon waned, I went on a retreat, coming back with a sort of spiritual “high” similar to that which came with the Steubenville Retreat of my last summer. As I came off that high, I found a new source of euphoria. Moving out, no matter where you are changing from or too, is exciting. Though the building I move from is the residence of almost all of my friends and the new one is condemned, asbestos filled, small, old, and has rooms smaller than legal jail cells, the move is exciting. The perspective of having my own space is even more exciting. And so, I have caught up in the euphoria of packing and moving. Before that, I had ridden the euphoria of bonding and a retreat. Before that even, I had enjoyed being home and rode the euphoria of friendship and family. This whole time, I suppose I was under the altering influences of the full moon.

The full moon has departed. The tide slams the other way. A paper was due today at 8am. Another paper was assigned yesterday, and there is a third one in the works. Assignments pile up, teachers talk down, movies baby-sit, a new work schedule has evinced confusion and more work, and my prime motivation for loving my home has turned its back on me, and has become my prime regret. I haven’t even moved out yet! The new life that awaits and beckons will not receive the happy recruit who signed the paperwork.

There is no feeling worse than regret. Whether it is knowing that you weren’t there for someone, that you failed to study hard enough for a test, that you set in motion a trend that has self-destroyed –hurting you with it, - or that you just handed in a paper not worthy of being called more than a rough draft to an excellent and expecting prof, the knowledge of your own failings has a peculiar quality to antagonize your mind. And that’s what I live with. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t once been happy.