Song of Myself (written 11/14/07)

I definitely think Whitman was on to something. Music and identity seem inextricably connected, something that I have found to be increasingly true over the past year or so. Just the right song at just the right moment and BAMB! Collision. Song and self swirl together and if you close your eyes just right, you can hear your soul swelling with musical movement as your very skin sings out in perfect harmony with the caucophony of your shoulders, knees, and toes. Hell yeah. You know what I mean to be sayin'.

Let me back up: I have always been a hummer. Music literally lives inside of me and most of the time I have no idea that it is leaking out in the form of a soft hummm. Half the time I don't even know what song I am humming, if it is even a song at all. Many people make the mistake of associating this humm with carefree gaeity or some other form of light-hearted expression. Not so. You people have simply been watching too many cartoons and corny prime-time citcoms.

But that's not really my point at all. My point is this: as of late, I feel like I have begun processing my life in terms of particular songs. I guess you could call it compiling my own personal soundtrack of life. I feel like Nick Hornby would be proud.

And so, in honor of High Fidelity and the prestigious act of list-making, another of my favorite past-times [see Favorite Movies of All Time list, below], I give you the compiled list of songs that would be on today's soundtrack:

WooHoo by 5,6,7,8s
I'll Fly Away by Gillian Welch & Allison Krauss
Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles
Mary Jo by Belle & Sebastian
Take My Hand by Ben Harper
The Wind by Cat Stevens
Born to Be With You by Chatham County Line
Caring is Creepy by The Shins
When I Was in Love
with You by The Greencards
The Long Way Home by Norah Jones

Candace's Favorite Movies of All Time List (1-50)

Ladies and Gents, a drumroll please...
I present to you,
the new and improved
2nd edition...
Candace's Favorite Movies of all TIME, in order:

1. When Harry Met Sally
2. ONCE
3. Lost in Translation
4. Stardust
5. Waiting for Guffman
6. Moulin Rouge
7. The Princess Bride
8. Dirty Dancing
9. Love, Actually
10. Manhattan
11. Almost Famous
12. Imagine Me & You
13. Psycho
14. Best in Show
15. Garden State
16. The Saint
17. Spinal Tap
18. House of Flying Daggers
19. Legends of the Fall
20. Kill Bill (1 &2)
21. Closer
22. Tombstone
23. Knocked Up
24. The Family Stone
25. Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon
26. Shop Girl
27. Harry Potter V
28. Hiroshima, Mi Amor
29. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless
Mind
30. Bridges of Madison County
31. Sliding Doors
32. Casablanca
33. Pride and Prejudice
34. Annie Hall
35. Lord of the Rings (1,2,3)
36. My Fair Lady
37. Chocolat
38. The Lion King
39. Laughing Hyena
40. Two Wondrous Tigers
41. Little Miss Sunshine
42. The Last Dragon
43. Sabrina
44. Dreamers
45. James Bond: Casino Royale
46. Independence Day
47. The Devil Wears Prada
48. Trains, Planes, and Automobiles
49. What About Bob?
50. Kung Fu: The Movie


Honorable Mentions:
Sister Act II
Pistol Pete
Rookie of the Year
Titanic
You’ve Got Mail
Ever After
The Other Sister
Only You

Big sigh...

As I sauntered into class this morning, I was greated by a rather large giftbag overflowing with blue tissue paper, patiently sitting on my desk. In the bag I found an assortment of hallmark "congrats" cards, one from each of my classes and another from Mrs. C, my Co-op. Each class had signed the cards with individual little messages, wishing me luck, thanking me for helping them this semester, well-wishes, etc. It was ridiculously cute, I assure you. There was much heart-swelling on my part. As a gift, Mrs. C. had provided me with the basic essentials for any beginning teacher: dark chocolate, green tea (mugs included), and a coffee/tea maker. This was especially sentimental considering Mrs. C and I's routine over the past two months: start out the morning with a hot cup of tea, nibbles of dark chocolate providing sustanance throughout the day. (The difficulty level of a day could often be measured by how much chocolate was consumed: a single chocolater would be considered a downhill sleigh ride, while 4-5 pieces would be a clear sign of headaches, deep breaths, and inspirational monologues.)

So today was my last day in the classroom. I completed my observations, raided Mrs. C's file cabinet, cleaned off my desk and said goodbye to my kids via white-board (which I thought was rather apropos). I decided to take off at the beginning of fourth period, having nothing left to do but sit and reminisce. I was not prepared for the cacophony of protests that greeted me as I began to gather my things. I was profoundly touched and did my best not to linger, soaking in as much positive affirmation of these many months of hard work as possible.

The truth of the matter is, I am going to miss it. I'm going to miss the classroom and the day-to-day routines. Most of all, I will miss the kids. I will miss hearing them call me by my last name. I will even miss their whining and disruptive banter, times in which I often had to hold back my laughter and put on my "stern" face, if only for pretense. Still, by the end of the six weeks, I stopped holding back and laughed openly with them. This was a relief for both of us I think. They were a good group. Challenging, yes. Hard-headed, lazy, apathetic--good GOD! Still, there was a spark there. I saw it; they felt it. What more could I ask for?

And so I am finished. Done.
I completed the hardest semester of my academic life thus far and--most importantly--I did it all on my own. There was no one waiting for me at home to rub my feet or give me words of comfort or fix me dinner. For these things, and more, I looked to myself; I dug deep and found a strength I didn't even know was there.
For this inner strength and for the friends and family who gave me countless words of encouragement along the way, I will be eternally grateful.

BOO.

In honor of the season [it is halloween, afterall], the following blog recounts two rather frightening experiences as of late:

Scarytime #1:

I went out on a date the other night. This in and of itself may seem rather scary but, wait, there's more.

I was actually pretty excited about it. The guy in question seemed like a real catch: Americorp alumni (he spent a year in Colorodo providing medical care to poverty-stricken, mostly illegal immigrants), Chapel-Hill Graduate, pre-med, semester in Australia, super hot and quirky cute all rolled in one. And he seemed pretty hung up on me, to boot.

So he gets my number and we go have a couple of beers at one of my favorite pubs downtown, which just happened to be having bluegrass jam that night. Cat's out of the bag: we both like-no LOVE- bluegrass music. Major bonus points. We talk and laugh and all is going rather well. Could it be? Had I actually managed to meet a smart, attractive MAN, official graduate of the petty little boy status so common to these parts? The question is humming around in my mind, practically in mid-air, stuck in one of those lovely little bubbles so often attributed to mental activity. Aforementioned bubble is floating inconspicuously over my left shoulder when it comes time to pay the bill.

"You ready to make a break for it?"

POP! goes the bubble.

"We will have to be pretty sneaky about it though, make a quick get-a-way."

Ummm...come again?

While I continue to stare at him in what would best be described as dumbfounded awe, unable to formulate a coherent reply, the waitress comes to my rescue.

"Can I take that for you?" she asks nonchalantly.

Yes! Yes, please take it! Take it now before this niceboy FRAUD pulls a gun on us all and asks us for our spare change. It is only a matter of time. Sweat begins to pool on my brow. No wait, I almost forgot: we southern gals don't sweat, we glisten.

"Damn it. Almost. I do feel bad for the waitresses though, if only because I wait tables myself." He says this with a note of, not remorse, but dissapointment.

So to my relief, he pays the bill-- all fifteen dollars of it. I mean, seriously! Seriously? Fifteen bucks? I'm not even worth the price of four beers, two of which were YOURS? And on a FIRST DATE, nonetheless. It boggles the mind. Even now, I have trouble rapping my brain around it.

Jump to the end of the evening: we pull up to my house, he leans in for a kiss and before I know it, without even thinking about it, I've totally pulled a Cheeker. So let this be a lesson to you, little boys everywhere: attempt to swindle your date into participating in an immoral, not to mention illegal, activity and you too shall receive a similar, if not far more severe, fate. You have been forewarned.

Scarytime #2:

I went to Wal-Mart today. I didn't want to; I hadn't planned on it. It just kind of, happened.

I found myself standing in aisle 15, hands by my side, shoulders slouched, brow furrowed. My eyes bounced back and forth, as if waiting for someone [or something] to jump out from behind the 50 pound bag of dogfood beside me and begin knawing at my ankle.

Instead, a 400 pound woman strutted by infront of me, her camoflage entourage obediently in tow. I immediately break into a cold sweat. Where am I? What is happening? A feeling of total and complete resignation passes over me as I realize that half of the people in the store- sorry, "supercenter"- are probably related to the unfortunate kids I see every day in my classroom.

Wal-Mart on a saturday afternoon is officially one of the scarriest places I can imagine. Even now, I shudder just thinking about it.

Picture this:

Halloween party. Myself, a multitude of friends, including those I have yet to meet. Keg out back, tequila (lime and salt included) standing guard in the kitchen. Jolly good times all around.

Now enter into this picture another, as to yet unrelated, image: that of my boss, the head of the English Department at the high school I am currently student teaching at. Blonde hair, pretty, composed and FIFTY THREE YEARS OLD.

Now slingshot one directly into the other-- WHAM! BAMB! CRASH! KABOOOOOMMMM!

Get the picture?

Oh, and did I mention the fact that I just happened to be decked out in full skankorific regalia as only Halloween could properly condone? [Sexy mental patient = the perfect opportunity to be skanky AND demented at the same time!!!! perfection!]

Needless to say, you can surely imagine the "worlds crashing" sound effects that rang in my ears when Ms. X walked in the door to the aforementioned KEG PARTY. To be more specific, I ran. No, seriously. I ran out of the house, covering my eyes until I reached a deceivingly safe Rhododendron out back. Perhaps if I just shut my eyes tight enough and squated in the dirt long enough, this would not be happening?? Surely the embarrassement and HORROR of the current situation would soon pass away into a tequila-induced blur?

After several minutes of seriously contemplating my options [the strange looks I was receiving continued to convince me that I was not quite as undetectable as I once believed] and surveying my surroundings, I came to the harsh yet irrevokable decision that I must, indeed, face my fear, [wo]mano a [wo]mano.

Flash ahead, one hour. Ms. X and myself, raising our filled to the brim shot glasses into the air and triumphantly sending out a toast to the noble teaching profession. Lick, drink, suck.
Seal with a mid-air high five and you have yourself one mighty fine evening.
CHEERS!

Sucking of the Marrow

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it...."

--Henry David Thoreau
from Walden

Things I love in this moment:

Bluegrass music
Manhattan, the Woody Allen movie
Paris Green, the color of my bedroom walls
Bumblebees
The cobblestone streets of Vienna and the
sparkling lights that reflect off of their
worn smooth surfaces
Daisies
Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwiches
Grilled--so that the peanut butter is runny
and gooey
sticking to my fingers and dripping down
my chin
Strawberry Milk, sipped from a spoon
And pearlescent nailpolish
pretty and
pink.
But most of all,
in this moment,
I love the smell of my own skin
And the beat of my own heart.

Hi there! Long time no see. I know it has been awhile since I have posted anything. To be honest, I have been avoiding it. I havn't been looking forward to explaining myself as of late. I know, I know, I don't need to explain anything but, well, I guess that just isn't my style. I don't like suppressing things, witholding information; it doesn't feel right to me. So, attatched you will find an email I sent to my dear friend Tom this past week. I think it covers everything pretty well.

Tom,

So it has been awhile since we have corresponded-- that whole "life" thing, getting in the way. (go figure) I feel like a lot has happened since I last emailed you; I'm sure you have been pretty busy on your end as well.

I suppose the best place to start is at the end: I got my heart broken, again. How is that possible, you might ask? After all, it has only been 4 1/2 months since I got back from New Mexico. Honestly, I don't know. He was a friend of mine; I've known him for over two years now. One night in mid-july, we met up for dinner with another mutual friend and, for whatever reason, something switched. It really was that instantaneous. We then spent the next 3 1/2 weeks together, spending every free moment we had wrapped up in each other. A lot of that was because he was leaving, off to California to "find himself, be irresponsible, and promote his art." Yeah, that. Who knew when he would becoming back, if ever. We spent a week in New York before he left, during which time I fell in love with him. Head over heals; done. I couldn't help it. Then he left and I cried and came back to -----ville to start my student teaching, which has been the most stressful, draining, exhausting, perplexing, fulfilling thing I have ever done. We had very little correspondence for nearly a month and a half, at which point, out of the blue, he told me that he loved me and was coming home. well, you can imagine, I'm sure, my reaction. I was ecstatic, yes, but hesitant. I still didn't trust that it could be true, that he was actually coming back to me. And I didn't really accept it, not until the morning his plane was supposed to arrive. Only then did I let it sink in fully, let it envelop me and take me over. This too was a mistake. He came back, eventually, but not as the man I fell in love with, but as someone else: distant, confused, and selfish. You see, when he told me he loved me and was coming home, I foolishly interpreted that as "I love you and I am coming home for you, to be with you." I wasn't prepared for the "I don't really know what I want" speech, which consisted of him explaining that he knew he wanted me in his life, but he wasn't sure how or what that meant. He wanted me, yes, but he also wanted the possibility of someone else. Back to the whole cake-eating thing. I suppose he felt like I was just supposed to hang around until he figured it out, which I could have done, it's true. I did, actually, for about a week, during which time I thought everything was finally starting to fall into place, just like it used to be. Then he floors me with the "I think we are moving too fast" talk and everything proceeds to fall apart from there.
So now it is over and I am heartbroken. I don't know if it is that I have never truly felt this before or if I have simply forgotten what it felt like. Either way, I don't like it. At times I feel like the physical representation of agony. But, like most things, it comes in waves, the good and the bad. Sometimes all I really want to do is just curl up in a ball and cry, or even worse, just lay there, thinking of him and what might have been. Danger, I know. I just wish I could shut my mind off, keep myself from remembering. It's the memories that are killing me. Suddenly the premise of Eternal Sunshine doesn't seem so absurd. If only I didn't remember how beautiful it was then, maybe we could at least go back to the way things were before any of this even happened; perhaps then I could at least have my friend back.
At first I even understood. I remembered how I felt with my ex, Dan: that feeling of knowing you want to be with someone, but also knowing, deep down, that it just isn't right, that this isn't the end of the line. That restlessness, that fear. I thought I understood because I had been there before, and somehow, this gave me comfort. But recently, I have lost that sense of understanding. There is one key difference between Paul's* situation and my own: I gave it a try. I tried to make things work with Dan before I threw it all to the wind. But Paul, he couldn't even do that. He couldn't even try. And that, that pains me more than anything. The frustration of not knowing whether we were good for each other or not. At least then, if it didn't work out, we would KNOW. But this, this is just torture, this not knowing. Then again, perhaps the not-knowing is a kind of knowing all in and of itself. ya know?
The truth is, I know I deserve better. I know I deserve someone who will sweep me off of my feet and make me feel truly beautiful, someone who will lift me up rather than contually breaking me down. Logically, I know all of these things. Then why? Why do I allow myself to put up with things that I wouldn't otherwise? Why does my heart want him and only him?? Will that go away? Do I just have to ignore it long enough until it fades, when all I want to do is embrace it for as long as I possibly can because that, even that, makes me feel closer to him? I feel the pain and it reminds me of how much I loved, it reminds me of him. There is an odd, demented sort of comfort in that; I don't know if I am ready to let go-- of the pain or, as a result, of him.
My cooperating teacher, Mrs. C, and I were talking the other day and she said something that really stuck: She said that, when you are teacher, everything is always ok. No matter what is going on in your life, no matter how shitty things get, when you come to school, you have to put it all away somewhere and pretend that everything is ok. You do that enough, day after day, and sooner or later you convince even yourself. I can definitely see this now. I wake up in the mornings and all I want to do is stay in bed all day and wallow. But I can't. So I get up, I get dressed, I even put on makeup and do my hair. Then I come to school and I smile and give away all of my energy to these kids, whether they deserve it or not. By the end of the day, I don't feel like wallowing any more. I smile and hum to myself and somehow I have managed to forget about him, even for a moment. Still, by the time I get home, I am exhausted and worn down. I keep going though; I meet up with friends or go drink some tea or go work out, anything that keeps me busy and away from the house, away from my room and the memories associated with it. When I finally do get home, I plan for the next day and try to get in bed before midnight, ready to start it all over again at six the next morning.
I'm tired, Tom. I feel like I keep getting beat down. It's like that Ben Harper song, "Don't let them take the fight out of you..." I really like that song. I feel like the fight in me is dying and I don't like it. I'm doing everything I can to keep it alive, to just keep punching, no matter how wimpy the punches may be at the time. Just keep punching...

So I guess that's where I'm at now. I'm still punching, still fighting. I surround myself with people who love and support me, feeding off of their energy and their love. I don't think they even know how much I am depending on them right now. Then again, maybe they do.

Well it is lunchtime; I am writing you during my planning period. I leave you to eat my apple and grade papers. ( I wish I could say that were simply a metaphor, but, alas, I speak the truth!)
I am anxious to hear how things are going for you. Please send me an update whenever you get the opportunity!

With Love,
Candace

* For whatever it's worth, this name has been changed for obvious reasons.

Appendix A:

Fight Outta You
By Ben Harper

They'll look you in the eyes and stone you
Then turn and disown you,
Don't you let them take the fight outta you
They'll walk all over your name 'til they find someone else to blame,
Don't let them take thefight outta you
Secrets hide their lies inside hidden alibis,
Don't let it take the fight outta you
They put the world on a hook,
It's worse every time I look
Don't let them take the fight outta you

I would rather take a punch than not give you a shot
I'd rather find out who you are than who you're not
Should have known better than to mistake business for love
Should have known better than to mistake a fist for a glove

It will be in your honor 'til you're not needed any longer,
don't let them take the fight outta you
Don't believe the headlines, check it for yourself sometimes,
Don't let them take the fight outta you
The lies you live become you, the love you lose it numbs you,
Don't let it take the fight outta you
They say that you've arrived but that's just a high-class bribe,
Don't let it take the fight outta you

I would rather take a punch than not give you a shot
I'd rather find out who you are than who you're not
Should have known better than to mistake business for love
Should have known better than to mistake a fist for a glove

There's always someone younger, someone with more hunger,
Don't let it take the fight outta you
They'll say you're the one and only
Then straight up leave you lonely,
Don't let them take the fight outta you
Like a transplant-patient waiting for a donor,
Don't let it take the fight outta you
Like a half empty balloon after a party in the corner,
Don't let them take the fight outta you.

Damn straight. You tell 'em Ben. You sing it!

That is all. On to more pressing matters next time...

Word

This past Friday, I taught a lesson on persuasive rhetoric. I began by brainstorming on the board all of the purposes of language: to communicate, to express ideas (expressive writing), to hurt/slander/blackmail (sticks and stones...), to convey information, to persuade (persuasive language), etc. The lesson itself only lasted five or ten minutes before we moved on to the main activity, but it's importance is immeasurable. I don't know if any of my students truly grasped the magnamity of what we were discussing. After all, how do you really "get" something that big? Do any of us ever truly grasp how freakin' awesome language really is?
Allow me to clarify: I am an English teacher. I love language. My life revolves around language in all its myriad of forms. Words sustain me; they sustain us all, I think, in some way or another. Some may say that knowledge is power. Though not untrue, where would knowledge be without the language to express it? Thus I prefer "Language is power." Perhaps I shall make it my mantra. I shall cut it out in big felt letters (yellow, orange and red, of course) and post it on my corrigated bulletin board, right next to the autumn-inspired maple leaf cutouts.
If this is all true, if "Language is Power" is to dominate my classroom and my life, why do I feel like I am losing faith? If language is my religion, I am secretly becoming an atheist.
I mean honestly, do words really MEAN anything? In the end, they are just letters, stuck together, one behind another, in a particularly symbolic way to REPRESENT a thought, idea, feeling, etc. They aren't an independent entity at all, but a watered-down carbon copy of the original, the core. Or, even worse, they act as an amplifier, taking what may be but an acorn on the inside and displaying it as a full-grown tree to the outer world.
The same people who say "knowledge is power" also claim that sometimes, actions speak louder than words. This time, I would have to agree with them. I'm tired of empty words, words, words!!! Sometimes I just wish the world would stop talking and start doing. If you want something, go get it. If you can't get it, do everything in your power to climb that mountain for as long as it takes for you to reach the top. Don't talk about climbing it. Don't plan or strategize or pack. Even worse, don't sit around making excuses as to why you can't get there. Just do it. Maybe Nike had it right all along. If you believe in a particular religion, live it. If you don't, don't. If you want to be a good friend to someone, show them how much you care about them by being there, being that shoulder or that dinner or that smile. And if being a good friend means sitting up talking into the wee hours of the morning, then by all means, TALK! But don't use language to fill a void, to fill up a space that you are too lazy to fill yourself. And don't use language to make yourself feel something you don't, because it can and it will, if you let it.
Which brings me to my last point: if you love someone, show them. show them that love; be that love. Don't write sonnets or profess undying love in four syllable words. Listen. Hug. Kiss. Hold. Laugh. Cook. Clean. Walk. Listen. Talk. yes, talk!! Talk words that are filled to the brim!! Talk words that MEAN SOMETHING, that you feel down to your very core. Let them spill out of you like water, ebbing and flowing. Let your words keep your love afloat, taking it to places it could never have reached on its own! Use your words, whether they be accorns or trees or those same maple leafs that are displayed on my bulletin board. Just let them be alive!!! I am tired of dead words--empty promises and empty dreams.
Perhaps I am not losing faith in language after all; I just can't stand seeing it abused. I can't handle it any more. I say that because in the past, I have been one of the cheif abusers, using language as a means to an end, as a way to make substantial something that was essentially transient.
So you go language. You rock that. You know I still love you. I still believe. I believe in your power. I suppose it isn't so surprising, then, that something so powerful can be so easily abused.

In conclusion, I would just like to note the inherent irony of writing a blog about the ineffectiveness of words.
Damn it.
hahaha!

Ladyfriends

The other night I was having trouble sleeping. I kept tossing and turning as my mind shifted from one doubt/worry/fear to another. I tried doing some breathing excercises; I even tried yelling at myself, thinking that might work. (Hey! it had worked in the past!) Still, I could not shake the cloud of negativity that was now hovering over my bed.

So I thought I would try something else:

I turned over on my back, hands by my side, and took a few, measured breaths. Suddenly, I was no longer alone. Slowly, all of my close ladyfriends began gathering along my bedside. Meg, Anita, Wendy, and Annie were there. Liz and Caroline were there. Carrie, Cody, Ashley. My mom and my sister. As I lie there, more and more came. They didn't come to chastize me or tell me what was wrong and what I could do to make it better. They didn't even give me their sympathy or coat me with "you poor thing." Instead, they reached out and touched me. Just one hand. Just a gentle touch, a recognition of their presence. And they smiled. They smiled down on me and surrounded me with their positive energy and their support.

I remember feeling this insurmountable glow of light and peace. Take THAT you big mean scary insecurities! Try getting to me NOW! I suddenly felt protected and powerful in a way I had never really felt before. Why is that? Why is there such power in the collective feminine? And, most importantly, why do we fail to utilize this power more often? Can you imagine what could be accomplished, in our own lives as well as the world at large, if we as women decided to join forces instead of constantly piting ourselves against one another? Maybe it is overly optimistic of me, but I feel like the possibilities are literally endless! Women really can change the world, if only we put our minds to it.

Now boys, I don't mean to leave you out. I know there is a lot to be said for male comraderie and the like. But I'm not a boy. So that doesn't really do much for me, now does it?

I guess my point is this: Thank you. To all the women in my life: thank you. I don't think I would be nearly as strong, independent, expressive, or passionate without you. My tears would not be nearly as salty and my laughter would not carry nearly so far.
I love you.

Well, if you want to sing out, sing out
And if you want to be free, be free
'Cause there's a million things to be
You know that there are

And if you want to live high, live high
And if you want to live low, live low
'Cause there's a million ways to go
You know that there are

Chorus:
You can do what you want
The opportunity's on
And if you find a new way
You can do it today
You can make it all true
And you can make it undo
you see ah ah ah
its easy ah ah ah
You only need to know

Well if you want to say yes, say yes
And if you want to say no, say no
'Cause there's a million ways to go
You know that there are

And if you want to be me, be me
And if you want to be you, be you
'Cause there's a million things to do
You know that there are

Chorus

Well, if you want to sing out, sing out
And if you want to be free, be free
'Cause there's a million things to be
You know that there are
You know that there are
You know that there are
You know that there are
You know that there are

--Cat Stevens

I attended my first pep rally yesterday. My first pep rally in seven years. "GOOOOO Rockets!!"
What struck me so profoundly was the fact that so little has changed. The football players rush the pre-polished gymnasium floor. They strut and stick out their chests and heaven forbid their arms actually swing or (gasp!) touch the sides of their bodies. As the captains glower about at their adoring fans, the crowd goes WILD, screaming in pure exhaltation. It's all enough to send you into a frenzy. Soon the band begins to play Zoot Zoot Riot [riot!] and I can't hold it off any longer, this feeling of suddenly being fourteen years old again, furtively glancing about, hoping to catch the eye of one particular crush of the week. I have to take a few deep breaths and steady my gaze, reminding myself that no, I am not in the throngs of high-school angst, but twenty two years old, and a teacher at that. I am calm and controlled. These escapades are for the young and the foolhearted, not someone like me: older, mature, settled.

This, of course, is a fantasy as well. I am no more settled than Christopher Columbus as he sailed his ocean blue. When was that, 1492? Punk bastard. Ugh. Ok, maybe I'm selling myself a little short.

Either way, here I am. Actually, I don't think I've mentioned that yet: I am in Blowing Rock, at my aunt's Condo. The view is absolutely breathtaking and I am soaking in as much serenity and relaxation as possible before the coming weeks. There are hummingbirds everywhere, hovering incessantly, as if torn between two worlds: the treetops and the sweet succulence of the feeders. Or perhaps they are just saying hi. I say hi back, naturally, and somehow, all feels right in the world. Is it the hummingbird? the mountains? or is it something deeper, something within myself? Or are all of these one in the same? I like to think the latter.

A Wannabee Blogger

I have always had this tiny little voice in my head telling me to embrace my narcicism head-on and start a blog. Just do it, this voice presses, incessantly reminding me how interesting my life really is. "Wouldn't it be great to share this moment via Times New Roman font and the glories of the internet??" In my fantasies I would write about my life in a witty, border-line flippant tone and people would laugh and say to themselves "oh that Candace!" in obvious admiration. In a perfect world, I would become one of those famous people who become famous simply because everyone reads their blogs, every day yearning for the next installment. What will Candace do next?? Where will she go and, perhaps even more pressing, with WHOM? People around the world would unwittingly begin to live vicariously through me and my stories of love, loss, and life.

In the end, I tell the voice to shut up and go about my day, bloggless and unfullfilled. But no more, I tell you! It ends now!

Honestly though, thank you for reading my first ever blog post. (Brian, that one goes out to you.) The reality of the matter is, my life isn't always that interesting, but I'm going to write about it anyway. The next few months are surely going to be some of the most challenging yet, and I am excited to be able to share that with you. (Note: if my monologues begin to turn into a blubbering mess of explitives and incomprehensible sentence fragments, I apologize. You are forewarned.)

For the sake of documentation, here is a picture of brian and me, at the drip (surprise surprise) at the very moment of my first blog submission. A moment of silence please.