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A_nomaly
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Name: Allison
Interests: Give me beauty and abnormalities, wisdom and folly.
Give me music, literature, and science to learn a little more about man and his Maker.
Give me starbucks and chocolate!
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  dolface162
Member Since:
6/30/2005
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| But how many can actually claim to be virtuous?
I cannot claim virtue; I can claim patience. Patience--like a great cumbrous and fragile weight upon my shoulders. Tired. I cannot let it go or it will drop, and it will shatter. And all the miles I walked would have been a waste, to see my labor smashed into the dirt. I cannot let go now. Can I?
I can. But will I? I answer that without certainty, but with one step further. I tread forward slowly; the sun heats; my forehead glistens; the birds call; my heart beats; the road stretches its winding limbs as far as my eyes can percieve. I ache, but I am stronger than when I began. That is something. Trepidation pauses for a step as I smile at the road behind me and readjust my load for [and my sight on] the road ahead. . . My vision blurs.
Refocus. Has it really been just half a minute since I last saw the time?
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And so it happened. I am going to miss some things, some people here at home more than I expected. Much more.
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|  In a big city somewhere, I would love to live in a flat that is all dressed up in ivy and grime. Inside would be the sanctuary to my independence, from my slightly bourgeois IKEA lamps to the refreshingly healthy contents of my cupboard. I would live like a middle class working girl, but feel like a queen. No--I would feel like a conquistador in Prada sunglasses (or some cheap, but very convincing lookalikes).
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I jest? No, not really.
But for now, we'll have settle with my very pink bedroom and mamma's rules, won't we?
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| I live in a somewhat effete way, pretending I have much more than I want and having all that I need. I could complain of some slight unsatiated wants that are a direct result of bad planning or a smaller income that I would like. However, I have never known the poverty and dire distress that some have because they have not. Yet, with all of this lavish living, what have I offered the world? Also, I have been called talented, full of potential, even pretty (not that I fully believe any of it). And yet, I have done so little with what I have. So many days pass by with such vacuity, it astounds me. One numb figure, bumping along, senseless, thoughtless. . .but not worthless? Damn apathy. To care is to burn. To burn is to feel life, even if it is the life that is leaving you. Ironic. But of course, an English major can appreciate irony more than some.
[Edit]: I burn.
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| I am easily inspired. Skill, Artistry, Creativity inspire me. I stare at the bold, vivid strokes of a Van Gogh masterpiece and long to paint. I watch a professional basketball game, and I want to sail through the air with a basketball in hand. I close my eyes and am engulfed by the undulating melody of a piano textured by the smooth heart beat of the bass and steady rhythm of the drums and baritone; and I cannot wait to feel the ivory keys depress beneath my fingertips to make my own music. I read a good book, and I have to find a pen.
I am also easily disheartened--not by criticism however. No. Critisicm is instructive and always welcome. It is brutal disouragement that pains my heart and stalls my spirit. A single tear, hidden by the shadows of my features, is my only respite.
I want to be eight again--when I believed fairy tales could come true; when I believed in happy endings; when Christmas was so magical; when I wore frilly dresses even though everyone else was in jeans; when I was too small to reach the sink and do the dishes.
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| I was recently challenged to actually finish the books that I've started and put down for one reason or another. Since I do not take literary challenges lightly (dastardly English major), I've begun a list. When they are finished I will joyfully strike them from the list.
Note: I know this provides you with little enjoyment or interest, but it is a ploy I've devised to keep myself accountable, for some of the the books are a little less than enjoyable themselves.
The Portrait of a Lady. Henry James- Middlemarch. George Elliot
- The Prince. Niccolò Machiavelli
The Writing Life. Annie DillardA Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man. James Joyce- Walden. Henry David Thoreau
- War and Peace. Leo Tolstoy
Crime and Punishment. Fyodor DostoevskyThe Glass Menagerie. Tennessee Williams (I began the book right after I watched the play, but that is no excuse.)- "Discourse on Method." Descartes (Not a book, I know, but I started this essay and am bound to finish it as well)
After these are finished, I can start my real summer reading list. . .if I have any time left.
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