When Pigs Fly

While the rest of the world watches the Victoria Secret fashion show and posts about it on facebook, I'll do something productive and worthwhile. On Glee (the only program worth watching tonight), Rachel Berry's signature is a gold star. Like the character, the star is ridiculous and cheesy, but it represents Rachel, how she feels about herself and what she wants to be.

Though hers is extreme, anyone can relate to Rachel's obsessive need to stand out of the crowd. According to How Many of Me, there are 789,510 Sarah's in the United States alone. It's the 58th most popular name in the country. Another 22,000 have the same first and last name as me. Sarah was the 6th most popular female baby name my birth year. It used to be that people distinguished themselves from others with the same name by their lineage. I am Sarah, daughter of Robert and Philomena...yadda yadda. But everything is shorter these days (makes texting more efficient). I don't go a week without answering a call for "Sarah" on campus or in a crowd that wasn't meant for me. But I'm not complaining. There is an obstacle to every name. If your name is common, you get your last initial plastered to the end of your name, but I wouldn't want to have to spell my name for everyone either. I never have to give my professors a pronunciation lesson at the beginning of the semester and I never have trouble finding 'personalized' key chains and mugs at gift stores.

But how personalized are those items anyways? If there are that many other Sarah's out there (and another 355,901 that blasphemously leave off the "h"), then is a mug with my name on it really representative of myself? I think not. So I understand Rachel Berry's quest for an identifying logo. Companies create corporate identities equipped with logos, so why don't we?

Though I would not have chosen a symbol of monetary greed, Ke$ha made an attempt to give herself an identity. Wiki claims that "She has said that the dollar sign in her stage name was meant to be ironic, in that she 'actually [stands] for the opposite of putting a lot of emphasis on money.'" Sound like a poorly worded attempt to cover, but I can understand her need to stand out. I have known people that, kind of like some native traditions, identify themselves with a totem animal. They get necklaces, stuffed animals and even tattoos of that creature. I had one beloved aunt (may she rest in peace) who loved pandas. Her house was full of paintings of them, stuffed animals..pandas that students and friends had given her over the years. I'm not sure she would say that the animal represented herself, I think they were more than just cute to her. I still think of her when I see pandas.

Recently, I interviewed two people on campus about their tattoos- one increasingly popular way to make yourself different. (YEARBOOK PLUG ALERT- look for my article in your free copy of The Bluestone in May!) Anyways, the student got inked up to remind her of how she wanted to live while the professor's tats were symbols of accomplishments. Both has symbols of what they want to be and who they are. So I wondered, what would I have permanently painted on my body? What really describes me?

Don't worry mom and dad, I'm not getting tattoos...right now. This is purely hypothetical. In computer art in high school we had to make logos for ourselves. The requirements involved representing three different traits about yourself in addition to computer art and then combining them in one giant logo. I depicted my journalism goals and passions through an old fashioned reporter's hat, my love of nature and care for the environment with a leaf and band with a trombone. I tried to bypass the typical mice and monitors used for computer art with an electrical plug. The combination of the emblems resulted in a reporters hat with a leaf in the brim and my first and middle name. My middle name took the place of the trombone because I believe I received my musical inclinations from my middle-namesake, my grandmother. The sound effect blast from the name represented the music radiating from the name, a snipped of the trombone image.

You probably don't care for an entire portfolio-like description of the project, but I've been writing explanations of my work for classes so much lately, that it was habit. My apologies. However, there is a point. It was difficult to combine those three passions into one design and those three passions don't nearly encompass who I am. So how is a word, or a symbol supposed to represent me? Maybe that's why people usually have more than one tattoo.

There was some point where I realized that purple was kind of my symbolic color. Purple amethyst is my birthstone, it's my school colors and heck- clinique says purple brings out my eye color. So my glasses are purple, my TOMs are purple and I have more purple shirts and sweaters than I can count. Even so, a color can't truly tell who I am. In middle school, everyone said purple meant "gay," but it also represents royalty. In the church, it is used during lent to represent pain, suffering and therefore mourning and penitence. A google search for the meaning of the color results in a plethora of emotions and characteristics. The vastness of its meaning practically nullifies any meaning of the hue at all.

So, I've come to the conclusion that if anything is going to represent someone, the closest you're going to get is probably an animal. But no matter what, it will still need an explanation. If you tell someone that a butterfly is your symbol, they may think you are fragile and flighty while you were going for transformative or vibrant. For me, I can imagine there is a book or movie character that I identify with that could become my emblem, my coat of arms if you will. But maybe searching for that is wasted time. I was thinking about how much i like the concept of 'flying pigs.' First of all, they're fictional showing my creativity, imagination. Depending on how you think about the phrase "when pigs fly," they're also a symbol of faith that anything can happen or -as my roommate interprets it- of the impossible. Plus, some depiction are downright adorable. But you eat pigs. (Maybe I shouldn't- more on becoming a vegetarian to come!) Anyhow, I couldn't just proclaim the flying pig as my mascot. It didn't seem right. I think it has to come to me. I'll let you know when I figure it out. Or maybe you'll just see if inked on my shoulder blade. (Just kidding Mom!)

Compartmentalizing

That's what Dexter calls it. In one episode he talks about this method of dividing up the parts of his lives. In my life, compartmentalizing is not about keeping my murder victims separate from my children. But I realized that I also do this, and you probably do too.

Thanksgiving is a good example. In fact, it drives me crazy for the lack of divisions. There are so many options on my grandma's lovely spread that it was difficult to keep the carrots from running into the mash potatoes, the gravy into the stuffing. The next thing I know it, my bread is soggy. Bleh. It stresses me out.

As you can probably tell, I'm OCD. Not the kind of OCD that's actually clinically diagnosed. There are a lot of terms that we use in this lesser way. People use the word "retarded" to mean that someone acted stupidly. Not that they are stupid or not in any way intellectually disabled. In this case, "retard" becomes an incredible politically incorrect and offensive word. It is one that became habitual for me -not because I wanted to insult anyone, but because other people used it. It's one that I have purposefully and successfully eliminated from my vocabulary. "Gay" is another similar word.

So I'm not like OCD OCD, but you get the point. I like things ordered, listed, my ducks in a row. I like my roll unsoggy.

Like my perfect dinner plate, my life is separated. Being home, for example, is different than being at school. I divide those parts of my life and then there are further subcategories. I'm not a completely other person, but like I said, it's different. In some ways it feels good. Being home this week, I have done absolutely no school work. Maybe not the most responsible, but relaxing. When I'm at school I don't sleep in the way I do at home. Which is good for my attendance.

But life division is also a little weird. It means that I don't always have all my clothes. I brought home my whole hamper full of dirty clothes- plenty for a week, but when I have a specific sweater I want to wear and it's at school and I'm at home, it's inconvenient. It's not just about clothes, it's about having two different beds- which my back definitely does not like. And it's not about the beds either- it's just weird overall. But I guess I should probably get used to it. My siblings like to tease my mom about how I no longer live in this house and that my home is now Harrisonburg because they know it will upset her. But in the end, I have to get used to having different homes because this place is always going to home.

Compartmentalization. Good for serial killer Dexter Morgan, good for dinner, kinda sorta okay slash weird for life.

Kool-aid and Crazies

You know when something comes up once in your life -say a new vocabulary word- and suddenly you see it everywhere? Someone uses it in conversation, Ke$ha records a new song including it, you come across it in the novel you read in your abundant free time. (This exact example is completely fictional as I rarely have free time and if Ke$ha had a larger vocabulary than me I'd be off crying in a corner rather than writing this blog.) I do have another true story involving this phenomenon-Jim Jones. I don't think I had ever heard of him until I took a sociology class last year. After having studied his charisma and resulting cult and extermination of said cult, I came across ol' Jimmy everywhere I turned. Someone referenced him in conversation, another spoke of a Jones themed party involving Kool-aid that seemed, to me, a little too...what's the word? WRONG.

But neither of the aforementioned cases is the reason I introduced the whole phenomenon anyways. The concept that has appeared continually in my recent life is insanity. I know, I know what you're thinking. 1- You just made a post with "insanity" in the title. Are you running out of new ideas? 2- Sarah, you're crazy we get it. Why is this anything new? But it is not me e-mailing myself I'm talking about. (see my post, Dear Mr. Diary, I'm on the brink of insanity.) This is different. This is true insanity- the characters of Edgar Allen Poe, of Alban Berg and of Jeff Lindsay.

I find it interesting that these characters have all come up in different classes and in my free time in such a short time period. Yes I lied, I do have some free time. But what I have discovered, is how much I am fascinated by these characters. In English, we read of the anonymous narrators of Poe's The Tell-Tale Heartand The Black Cat who nonchalantly commit murders and conceal the evidence. Of course, the former's narrator spends the narrative trying to convince the reader, and himself, that he is not mad. "Harken! and observe how healthily- how calmly I can tell you the whole story," he tells us before ultimately revealing himself to oblivious police out of paranoia of the beating of his victim's heart. The story of the cat also involved an ironic reveal- this time at the hands -or should I say scream- of the feline. Both are seemingly normal human beings who commit murder.

The next luny I came across was in my music class. He is one Wozzeck, from an opera by that name composed by Berg. So okay, the a playwright actually originally conceived of the man, but Berg brought to musical life, the version I met. Either way, in the excerpt I learned about, Wozzeck has killed his love. He becomes incredibly paranoid, thinking the moon will reveal him, half-singing, half-wailing about being caught. His paranoia becomes too much and he drowns during an attempt to hide the murder weapon better. What do you know- another murderer gone crazy! Why can't anyone murder without loosing their marbles these days? Oh wait- that's who we forgot.

Dexter Morgan. My newest obsession. Dexter and I actually met sometime on break last year when I obsessively watched season four and then backtracked to season one. But classes quickly became more important and not until recently did we reunite. I am nearly done with season two which I started on Friday. I plan to be completely caught up when I return from Thanksgiving break. Why? Because Dexter is so intriguing, so addictive. (This is Jeff Lindsay's character if you haven't put that together- he actually wrote books first, which I didn't know about so I may have to devour those next.) If you don't know, Dexter Morgan, played by Micheal C. Hall who has become increasingly more attractive to my tastes, is a serial killer. His adopted father, a police officer, saw his dark side as a child and taught him a code by which to satisfy his craving. The code is based on the principles of only killing other murderers and not getting caught. You know he's a killer. You watch him kill almost every episode- and yet you cheer him on.

These three men have done more than create murderers. They have brushed the dust off the line between insanity and sanity. It is certainly not completely in sight. But now, we see a glimpse of where it is, what it's perimeter looks like. Poe, Berg and Lindsay present you with normal people and yet kill without a second thought. And we eat it up. We love every television show that analyses the phycho's brain. And Dexter is one of the best in my opinion. I highly recommend it.

In the end, it doesn't matter whether these characters are crazy or not. They're fictional anyways. We're all a little crazy because love the crazies... right?

Glory Days

There are some people that love going back to their high school. The jock who knows that his winning touch down in the big rivalry game will be remembered in the halls of his alma mater comes to mind. I am not one of those people.

I did not have had a bad high school experience by any means. The high school itself was fairly new, the teachers young and usually very good at what they did. We were known as the "rich school" by others in the county because there happened to be some affluent neighborhoods districted for it. A large majority of the girls wore designer clothes that cost way too much, went to tanning salons and had fake hair. They were what Mean Girls coined, "The Plastics." But it was not a bad school. I found my niche among more down to earth kids (aka band people). However, as my high school career ended I was ready to leave. No one had to pry my fingers from the flagpole and drag me kicking and screaming. By senior year, I felt like I had outgrown of the place. I was done with high school.

Last night, though, I went back. I went to my old high school to see my brother perform in the school play. That's what good sisters do, and I have to admit, I'll take an excuse to skip class. I was looking forward to the play until I walked through those doors.

I had three awkward encounters before the show even started. I didn't know whether teachers would remember me, so I didn't know what to say. I saw people whose name I couldn't remember. I was a mess. Not to mention annoyed. Sitting in my third row seat for twenty minutes, I listened to the group of (presumably) freshman behind me and couldn't not be annoyed. The girls threw themselves at the boys who enjoyed gossiping just as much as the girls. Their banter was insignficant and rude. They were loud, silly and annoying.

Not that I can't be silly and loud. I'm not TRYING to be the complaining old fogey that ruins the party...but I couldn't help being annoyed. I'm sure I was just as silly around boys at some point, but I can't imagine that I was so ditzy and stupid.

Needless to say, I loved seeing my brother on stage. But the moment I exited those doors, I relaxed. I breathed a sigh of relief, no longer worried about how to act, about trying to remember names, no longer uncomfortable.

It's sad that my high school can make me feel so uncomfortable. I get a warm nostalgic feeling flipping through yearbooks- but then again, I helped create those. There's something about being there that just doesn't feel right. But maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it's my psychological way of moving on. I'm in a different stage of life, and to a certain extant perhaps it's a good thing that I'm not trying to relive my glory days. The present is what's important after all, right?

Having just finished studying for a Buddhism test, I know that's what the Dalai Lama would say. Being in the present moment completely and wholly is the goal. I can't imagine not having what he calls "monkey mind," or being so focused that I literally only thought about each step when walking. That takes practice. But maybe avoiding high school, not living in the past is, in a way, a healthy start.

I never liked Turkey

That's right, it's true. I never really liked turkey. Now, it's my dominant sandwich meat, but I still don't crave thick, off-the-bone turkey the way most Thanksgiving-lovers do. It seems unAmerican to go about these weeks leading up to turkey-day without drooling at the mention of the gobbling fowl. And yet, although I look forward to the mash potatoes, the glazed carrots and the pumpkin pie, it is not the meal that I look forward to on Thanksgiving.

It's not even the football. Yes, I know- now I sound REALLY unAmerican. I don't cheer for an NFL team, only teams I feel directly connected to- right now (and for the rest of my life), JMU. In truth, I only learned what all the numbers are for this weekend. I've been in marching band for 6 years- probably going to 8-10 games a year as a high schooler and a college student. That's a minimum of 48 football games. I'm not stupid by any means. I just did that math in my head! I'm not unspirited either- I always cheer, and loudly too... when everyone else on my side cheers. Somewhere along the way, I learned touch downs and field goals, but never downs. So for the third or fourth time, I asked. Finally, it sunk in and now I actually understand what it means to be "3rd and 10." It means, if you're cheering for JMU, you're going to be disappointed (this season).

Despite this new knowledge, I have no desire to watch professional football on a television. So, you may ask, if it's not the food and not the football, why on earth am I looking forward to Thanksgiving?In recent years, I have begun to embrace in the next day, the day of early morning, long lines and cheap deals. But, it's not thanksgiving.

Like many American holidays, commercialization has fogged the true meaning of the holiday: giving thanks. I can't wait for these two weeks of classes to be over, because I have so much to give thanks for this season. Living in the gorgeous Shenandoah Valley, I have the dazzling fall colors blanketed across my view of the mountains. I have another year of health and success. I have a family to go home to. And this is what I'm most thankful for.

Thanksgiving, is about family. Whether you eat Chinese food with your immediate family- as I have done some years, gather with 20 extended family members, or with an un-blood-related family of friends, you will agree that thanksgiving is about people you love. Even if you love their cooking just as much.

Dear Mr. Diary, I'm on the brink of insanity

It's been a while. In fact, it's been over a week. And although I actually got a chance to hit the gym a couple times this week, something always suffers. This week, my blog did. So sorry Mr. Blog, I've missed you, I truly have. So, just in case I still have any readers left, I figured I should post SOMETHING. But the question was what.

I was scanning through my gmail for the hundredth time today. I know I never get emails on weekends, and yet it's habit to check every time I open my computer. Maybe that's one good reason I don't have a smart phone yet- I would never stop checking it. So anyways, I come across an email from none other than, myself. Yes that's right people, I email myself. I text myself sometimes too. You know what they say, talking to yourself is the first sign of going crazy. And while I do talk to myself...and inanimate objects (Mr. Blog included), I don't think they've added texting and emailing yourself to the list of signs of insanity yet.

Nevertheless, I had emailed myself. I sent the potential note of lunacy during one of my classes in a computer lab as a reminder so I would see it later. It was a quotation from my professor. He had nonchalantly made an observation which I found interesting.

"If you haven't figured this out yet, you're mind thinks differently when you're writing," said Dr. H. "All the things that block your creativity are eliminated when you write a couple paragraphs."

I think it struck me, because that is exactly what I have learned through this blog. I'm not trying to toot my own horn (a trombone, to be more precise). I'm not saying, well gee wiz I am super creative when I write. Rather, it's an observation about the lack of obstacles when writing. There's something about grabbing a pen (or keyboard) and letting thoughts flow. They go somewhere different than they would if they stayed in your noggin.

Your brain is interrupted by other thoughts and distractions. However, writing makes you focus, and yet it clears the way. Like Dr. H said, the road blocks seem to disappear. I feel a winding road stretching out before me. I think that's one of my favorite analogies ever. The road. It was my eighth grade yearbook theme- which of course, I had a lot to do with. There's something romantic about the image of an open road representing your journey- of middle school, of childhood, of your whole life, whatever. You imagine road blocks and detours, but also your navigator/right-hand-man and hitchhikers for a couple miles here and there. I basically just wrote out my conclusion of that 2005 yearbook, "Oh the Place You Will Go."

This is my stream of consciousness taking over. Once I've entered the land of nostalgia, you're just going to have to indulge me for a paragraph or so. Despite my lack of focus tonight, I think Dr. H is right. Writing breaks down barriers. It takes you to ideas you don't know you have, feelings you don't know are there. Sometimes those ideas and feelings can be scary or upsetting if the writing location is a letter or diary rather than a blog. (Or maybe a blog too, if you're the heart-on-your-er..homepage types). Even if they're scary, it feels so good when those feelings are no longer inside. Now I sound like a psychiatrist or something, huh?

When I began this blog, I wasn't quite sure where it would lead. Tonight, I wrote for myself. I apologize, readers. And yet, I do not. I needed to write without purpose, without directions. Sometimes you have to get lost. (Did you catch that reference to the road analogy- Oh Snap, look at you. Good Job.)

I suppose if there was a lesson for tonight, it's this: go write. I've come across so many friends and relatives lately who are overcoming tough times with the antidote called "writing." No prescription needed- just write. Even if you have crappy handwriting you won't be able to read later. Even if your typing skills are below par. Pick a medium and take a couple minutes to spill to Mr. Diary or Mr. Napkin. They'll be glad to listen to whatever you're thinking. All road blocks are down.