Monthly Archives: February 2011
I am one of the few in my family actually good at driving a car. I’ve never gotten a speeding ticket, a DUI, pulled over, etc. etc. Unlike my sister, who got her license less than a year ago, she has already gotten 3 tickets and has already been to court once for her reckless driving. As proud as I am of myself for my focused driving on the road, I refuse to step foot in a go-cart. I’ve had two near death experiences on go-carts, which is why I refuse to drive one ever again.
When I was younger, we used to go to my friends farm that was about 3 hours away from my home. We even owned two of the goats on the property – gizmo and latte. With all the acreage and endless miles of grass, we were able to go on a lot of adventures (one time we even got lost in a corn field). After the first couple times going, we were introduced to the go-cart they had recovered and restored into good health. Since the land was bare and there was so much of it, the parents allowed us to take it for a spin. My sister Sophie, who is 17 months younger than me, doesn’t always seem to understand things the first time told to her. Sophie and I decided to take a turn driving, I went first and then she went. On my turn, I drove it perfectly, calculating the angles of the turns and making sure to stay away from the holes in the ground. Only one time around, and my sister was practically on her knees begging for her turn as driver. I allowed her of course, since I knew she wouldn’t stop bothering me until she got what she wanted. Well big mistake on my part, within the first 5 minutes of her loop I was yelling at her to slow down on the turns in order for us to stay on all fours and not flip. Obviously she didn’t feel the need to listen to me; the go-cart flipped over and Sophie and I got stuck underneath the weight of the wheels. When we were freed from underneath, we were bandaged up and told we weren’t allowed to drive alone until we knew how to navigate the property.
Every summer we spend a week in the Outer banks. It is our favorite beach and practically my mom’s haven. Every year we go to Corolla, one of the beaches in OBX, and spend a night at the go-cart track, arcade, shops, and the brew thru (drive through grocery and liquor store). Usually when I was younger, I would sit in the passenger seat of my dad’s car as he whipped me around the tracks. When I was about 10/11, I decided it was time for me to graduate to the driver’s seat. They brought my car around, I hopped in, and waited for the green light that allowed us to slam on the gas. When I saw the signal that meant go, I sped off, I was doing pretty well, circling around the track with ease. All of a sudden, I felt a huge jolt that sent my body thrusting forward into the steering wheel that turned the car into the rail. Immediately following, I felt another jolt on my right and left side. My neck was thrown in all different directions and I hit my head on the hard part of the seat. I sat there petrified, in fear that my neck was going to be paralyzed. They stopped all the cars and ran over to me yelling that someone was coming and for me not to worry. I don’t know when it was that I started balling, but once the feeling of shock passed over me, I turned and finally opened my eyes to see my parents on the other side of the fence of the tracks looking at me with worried eyes. Instantly I became hysterical, but still was unable to move my head in fear of my neck snapping. For days following, I was iced back to health, after experiencing my first car accident.
To this day, I refuse to go take part in any go-cart or car racing activities.
This story was extremely difficult to interpret, especially since it is centered on a made up creature. After reading it, and re-reading it, I came to find that there are many possible interpretations.
My first thought was that Murakami was tripping off acid or some other hard drug. Although it would be extremely entertaining to have events like that happen in real life, its very unrealistic. However, his story was written in such a narrative that it almost seemed real, as if he was telling it from experience. I can’t decide if this was an internal monster that he was fighting or something external that was interpreted as a non-realistic monster. However, the way in which he was yelling at the monster seemed as though he was battling an inner problem, something that he was fighting off with bad words. It also could be someone who seemed to be bullying him, and whom he shut down with verbal abuse. I think that love however is a big theme; whether it’s a matter of loving himself, or being loved by someone of whom he didn’t love back. Many times love is a one was street, with one person loving someone and the other not feeling the same way, in this case, the monster loved Murakami and he did not love it back. I am not sure if this correlates with his love life, but since he is already married in the story, it could be someone who is not his wife that is confessing love to him. If someone else loved him and was trying to get in the way of his marriage, this monster could be the representation for the other woman, of whom he was trying to get rid of. All of my interpretations are a bit of a stretch, I am sure there is a much simpler meaning behind the story, one that I am unable to see.
People tell me that when you fall in love, you forget how to breathe…
When I travel, and see something new for the first time, or immerse myself in a culture unlike my own, I FORGET how to breathe. I am overly captivated by everything that is not what I am used to. I am like a little kid in a toy store, I don’t know what I want to see or touch, I don’t know what I want to do first. When I went to Belize and Guatemala this past summer, I literally stopped breathing for two and a half weeks, and when I say that, I am not exaggerating. I saw things that I had only seen in my dreams, I experienced things that I only read in books and saw in movies.
One of my favorite animals since before I can remember is a monkey; in Belize, I held a monkey in my arms for the first time. Her name was Mongoo; she was at a caving site that my sister, cousin and I visited with the family we were staying with. We fed her bananas, and with her human-like hands and feet, she peeled them perfectly. She stole our sunglasses and pulled our hair, which is how she got her title as being mischievous and untamed, I however found her to be very sweet. She sat outside the cave while we were inside (on a canoe). While in the cave, I see the skull of a young child embedded in a rock. Our guide (one of our host families sons) told us that back in the day, during ancient times, the people sacrificed their young because they believed G-d would notice their sacrifice and pour rain down from the heavens.
In Guatemala, I climbed up Lake Atitlan’s Volcano. A hike that should have taken us 2.5 hours ended up lasting 4.5 hours due to altitude sickness, fatigue and bug bites. Despite our constant complaints, we kept on moving up the vertical straight to the top. Finally we made it, and I’m glad we did; I had never seen anything like it, the view was breathtaking. We were sitting in the clouds, overlooking the beautiful lake, neighboring towns, and smaller mountains below. As hard as the hike was, it was 100% worth it, because I swear on that day, I had my first taste of heaven. It was magical, an unbelievable experience being so high up in the sky.
Being only two of the many amazing things I experienced during this trip, I can say that some of my dreams were finally turned into reality. I met amazing people and truly can say that this trip jump-started my journey around the world.
On any given day, if you walk by my dorm room, you will hear Eric Clapton, Steel Pulse, Grateful Dead, and many other old school bands projecting from my computer speakers. If you are my friend, you know me as the girl who is unaware of all the new, hip songs that are overplayed on the radio. I am a basher of the invention of text messaging, I love talking on the phone and hearing someone’s voice on the other end, but each year it seems my text messaging bill goes up and my voice call bill goes down. I love vintage clothing stores, the smell of old shirts and shoes passed down from grandmas and grandpas of past eras. My fur coat I got over break still has the mothball smell, helping to give my favorite vintage piece a story up to its place in my closet. I love the idea of sitting outside in a field, with a guitar, singing, laughing and enjoying the company of my loved ones.
I just saw Soja, a reggae band from Arlington, VA, at Westcott theatre, and they reminded me about how much I want to live in the 60’s, where Woodstock was still a big deal and smoking was considered normal. In their songs, they talk about their friends and family, and making a change, and how those are the things in life that matter most. In between songs the lead singer, Jake, talked about karma, and how life is a circle and how what happens in America will eventually happen in other countries and what happens in other countries will eventually happen here. I started thinking about life and how it is just one big circle, and how the borders of our life extend to the big circle that we call our world. Our life is made up of borders, the first being myself, the second being my family and friends, the third being my home, etc. etc. leading up to the last border, which is the big circle in which we live. Now this thought, this deep thought that my brain is trying to process right now, would make a lot more sense if my life was as carefree as life was back in the day. I feel that I was put on this world to make a difference, to make a change, and that the only way to do so is to stop worrying about the small things in life, the insignificant things, and to start worrying about the stuff that is going to impact how I view and see my world. In the end, happiness and love is all I need to get by, because if all I was living for was my diploma and my income, then I would have no reason to be here. The things in life that make someone happy, vary in each person, and whether they are right or wrong, shouldn’t determine whether or not we can be happy, because life is worth more than doing just what we are told.
I have come to find that my creative work has been hindered, especially when I am short on time and there are deadlines, in regards to grades. On projects that I feel rushed in, I tend to not push my creativity to the level it could reach because of the idea that I just need to get a good grade. As a psychological trick I am going to just tell myself that creativity comes before grades, and like you told us in class, grades don’t matter to artists as much as they do for the business and Newhouse students. I need to alter my mindset so that I enjoy and engage in the creative process of my work, with grades being the last thing I consider. Or maybe, you should just not grade us?….wouldn’t that be nice.