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belknap1981
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Name: Susie
Country: United States
State: Ohio
Birthday: 12/5/1981
Gender: Female
Occupation: Student
Industry: Education/Research
Message: message me
Member Since:
1/16/2004
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| I am working as a rep at a wholesale show this week. I sit in my little shop and offer to answer questions about which I do not have answers.
"What is this made of?" "Looks like a plastic-y/ resin type substance. It sounds like you could knock it over and not break it, but if you dropped it, it'd break." "What Bellsnickles are available?" "Well, lets see, there is big one with a drum and a gold coat, and there is a red one with a patriotic bent; looks like two. Oh wait, that whole corner is full of them; we have a lot." "Are your Mache Sheep Holding Basket of Chicks popular?"
"Well, not in my circle of friends." Down the hall there is a shop that must be run by ferrets judging by all the shiny things. My favorite is the diamond tie. In addition to being gaudy as all get out, it looks heavy. I cannot imagine what a person would do with such a tie, or how I would manage interacting with someone wearing a diamond tie. Not
only would the tie be insanely distracting, I would become engrossed in
trying to enter this person's psyche: At what point did they decide to
throw the tie on? Did they set it out the night before, knowing that
they had a big day of errands to run? Or was it a last minute decision as they looked in the mirror on the way out? Something is missing, I look drab. Ah, I know, I'll clip on my diamond tie. I really do enjoy the idiosyncrasies of people though. It
may be one of my favorite things about where I grew up--people proudly
displayed their oddities: The woman who loved buttons has a room built
to display her cherished treasures. Lawns are decked out in cement geese wearing rain slickers. Two gargoyles are chained to the porch of a house in town. My
neighbor the chocolate factory heir builds a teepee in his yard. The
woman with an eerie doll collection is invited to speak at
mother/daughter luncheons. The farmer sets up his 20ft high "air mail"
box at the end of his lane, and the people with the pond beside their
house set a pair of legs sticking up in the middle of the pond.
And
me? When visiting, out from under the eye of the city, in my parents
yard at twilight, I listen to music, transporting to dramatic places,
imagining tragedy, heroics, romance. To the outside observer, it
appears as restless chaotic pacing at best, a personality disorder at
worst. But we all respond to our lives, who we are and who we feel
capable of being, in different ways. We find ways to reconcile the
disparity between the two with our diamond ties that we hope show our
dashing beauty and our schizophrenic midnight walks that make us feel
brave.
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| Susie,
Remember swimming at the pool in the summer? You used to sink down to
eye level and imagine you were stranded on an island in the ocean—shark
infested ocean to boot. There, laying on your Mickey Mouse lifejacket
you would swim away from the steps at the base of the shallow end of
the pool. You set forth on that crystal ocean; away from the island,
out to sea, with no land in sight.
Why did you leave the island?
There were sharks; sometimes they circled menacingly. It was difficult
to leave the island because of them waiting, waiting for you to dare to
swim beyond the shore. You left without knowing where to go. At eye
level that pool was vast; there was no land in sight, only the blue of
the ocean meeting the blue of the sky. Those waves those unending
waves, threatened to drown the weary castaway. You didn't know when you
set out if you would survive, you didn't know what would be beyond the
horizon. But you set out.
You paddled out into your ocean. Out,
out, out. Past the ladders, past the slide; you paddled on and on into
the deep end. Even though you grew tired, inside your heart you knew
that this journey would lead you somewhere good. Tropical, living,
inhabited.
Susie, you swam to the diving board. In your ocean
world, you crossed the sea to find your refuge. With only you makeshift
Mickey Mouse boat, you reached your destination. A place more exotic,
more thriving, than the place you left.
And now, you have set
forth again. You dared to submerge your self and look to the horizon to
see vast adventure without certain destination. You have embarked on
the journey of the brave; leaving your safe and secure isle.
Where
will you come to rest? How far is this place from where you are now?
You have no way of knowing. Just look past the sea and keep paddling
Susie. Swim, swim, swim; past the line that divides the shallow from
the deep and keep going. Oh what a life now awaits you.
Yours most sincerely,
Susie
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| I was sitting on a picnic bench this afternoon watching two guys under the trees on my left trying to swat their remote control airplane out of the tangle of branches it had blown into. At the swing set was a woman I originally thought a middle-aged mother with her twenty-something son. Judging by what I saw at a glance, I misjudged their relationship.
I sat with my favorite pen, my iPod, cell phone, sunglasses, and some notebook paper I had retrieved from my car before safely shutting and thereby locking my keys in the trunk.
Originally I hadn't intended to spend much time with pen and paper; usually such moments tend to result in scattered words, phrases, unanswerable questions, doodling—the general inking of the uninspired. Suddenly though I had an extended amount of time, uninterrupted by anything but the occasional call from AAA.
Now I am not claiming to have experienced some kind of epiphany, I'd have been glad to have one, but eventually I got to thinking and writing a bit more than "I don't know what to say" and "Fiction." See, I locked my keys in my car because I was looking for paper; sometimes I take my journal to the park, just in case. But I consciously had decided not to today. The end result of that choice threw a light on the journal and got me thinking about what I write and where, because I have this and other online blogging sites, and multitudes of written bits among my possessions. This was then globalized to the sharing of all thought and emotions (That's what I do).
Sometimes that gets to me, globalizing things, connecting things…over connecting things. It gets tricky because when things get over connected it is really difficult for them to stand on their own and to stand for nothing but what they actually are. For instance, my brother Joe (#4) was known at potluck functions to make sure that whatever my mom brought was being eaten enough. If there were too few scoops of her casserole missing, he'd load up his plate with her dish so that when she came to collect it she would feel affirmed in her cooking and wouldn't feel rejected as a person. Actual truth: a casserole is a casserole, some people like green beans, some don't, and some just scoop from the first of the fifty green bean casseroles they come to on the folding table. But things get so entwined, and pretty soon a gaff (locking my keys in my car) becomes an indictment on society (we shouldn't have to defend, explain or justify our unfounded fears, desires, doubts, angers). It is a bit of a jump…no, actually it is quite a jump
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| Location: Kingston, Ont. Joe Dough's Pizza place (thanks to the guy who is flirting behind the counter)
We've slept in the car for two days, jumped rocks all on a river in the
Adirondecks, traveled throughout French Montreal (as in they speak
French, as in not English) and have driven for 2000 miles. Life is
beautiful.
Yesterday we sat for 2 1/2 hours in stopped traffic waiting to cross
the boarder. After about two hours of reserved compliance to the
situation we found the wedding bubbles in the car and started blowing
them out the window and sunroof. The people around us responded, kids
giggling with their heads out the window and middle aged Asian men
poking the bubbles that floated nearby. By the end of the time I was
sitting on the armrest between the seats with my head half out the
sunroof. I felt like the Bubble Princess of Champlain, smiling and
waving on my fathers camero in the Fourth of July parade. | | |
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I am at an impasse I think. Within the last week it has
occurred to me that I need to ask a couple questions and find a couple answers
if I can. Is freedom a want or a need? And for that matter, what is
freedom?
This has been an occupation of my mind lately because I have
found myself on more than one occasion thinking about things very differently
than I ever had before; questioning what I have deemed appropriate and
acceptable. Mine has been a self
restricted life. Thus far I have pursued pleasing God through sacrificing my
longings and starving my desires. I
cannot say that this has been horrible; in many ways I have had an
extraordinary life, I would never deny that.
But as with so many things time and change have cast a new light on that
lifestyle. I kind of get the impression that I am missing something; my guess,
is freedom.
Two goals I have for my life: happiness and significance.
While I found these in a regimented lifestyle, or at least thought I had them;
I have never been very good at maintaining happiness or significance through
pursuing a disciplined lifestyle. I
firmly believe that my days can have these two things, and that I was born (as
we all are) to have these things.
Happiness is a blessing and significance is noble; they are
characteristic of our creator.
This brings me to the question of a means to this end. I
propose that freedom is good. To some this seems absurdly basic and to others
dangerously wrong. I don’t think I am
exaggerating in saying that. I can’t help eye it suspiciously myself; asking if
I am not paving the way for depravity and a calloused heart by embracing it.
Freedom.
See to me, right now the sticking point is this: if freedom
is a need, than I can pursue it without looking back. However, if freedom is a want, than its
presence in my life should be conditional.
Put another way, how narrow is the road? And what kind of narrow is it?
Jesus was liberal in his love, his kindness, his compassion.
His ire was reserved for the religious, not the thief, the prostitute or the
outsider. Why? So what? I wonder if it
has to do with religion’s knack for banning freedom.
I am not so bold though, to let that be that and say to hell
with religious requirements. What about
that narrowness of road? I can’t ignore
it. Ultimately, if God is God (which I
believe), than his say should be final in my life and his plan enacted--no
matter how strict. But (to bring this
all back to the beginning), I simply don’t know what God sees as bringing my
heart in line with his and what he sees as keeping it from him.
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