Free Pass to Scream

A long while back (although it was really only a year) I read a blog post/comic by the wonderful Allie entitled: Sneaky Hate Spiral. (http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/05/sneaky-hate-spiral.html)

The best part about it was the accuracy with which she portrays something everyone has experienced.
And lately, unfortunately my life has been no exception.
Stress is funny that way.
It builds and builds and suffocates you until there is nothing left to do but explode.
Thus, recently, I find myself fighting off a strange urge to scream.

And then I realized.

EVERYONE (and I do mean everyone) should be allowed a free pass to some place that allows them the chance to scream.
Places like:

An amusement park -- in which dangerous feats of physics are made possible by strategic placements of metal and wheels.

A ball game -- in which the epic feats of sportsmanship inspire such anger and rapture that you are forced by nature to participate in the raucous expression of your emotions.

A haunted house -- in which various costumed people, props, and mechanisms are propped, placed, and strewn about with the express purpose of scaring you senseless.

A club -- in which the music is so much louder than your ability to speak that you are forced to raise your voice to naturally unhealthy decibels in order to be understood.

Or perhaps events/activities would suit some better?
Things like:

A concert -- in which you and hundreds of other fans show appreciation by vocally assisting your favorite band/singer with remembering the words to their songs.

Bungee jumping -- in which, tied to an elastic rope, you willingly throw yourself off the railing of a bridge, threatening your body with an x-mph smash into the ground below.

Sky diving -- in which you take classes for the purpose of eventually throwing yourself out of an airplane.

Cliff diving -- in which you and some of your friends bet on who will have enough gall to jump from that extremely high cliff side, into the presumably death-by-stone-impalement waters below

Then again, there are some potentially more constructive passes that might be helpful:

Singing -- in which you are allowed to sing as loud and as off key as you want, preferably with the accompaniment of a REALLY LOUD BAND.

Acting -- in which by right of character, you are allowed to speak as ornery or excitedly or obnoxiously as you'd like. Or, in which you die and therefore must let out a last cry.

There are probably many more things that would be a valid de-stressing-by-screaming activity so I rest my case.

Everyone should be allowed a free pass, to some thing, somewhere, where they are given the undeniable right (not privilege) to yell whatever they want without consequence, as loud as they want.

I think that doing this would make the world a much more peaceful place.

More about Spiders

I thought, since yesterday I explained how I react to spiders, I would today talk about how I believe I contracted the fear of these 8 legged beings.
Yes, contracted. It is a sickness that can and I will, OVERCOME.

Anyhow.

When I was young, very young, in elementary school, I read a story in Highlights magazine about a Black Widow Spider.

I was a highly imaginative child, a trait I still treasure, and as such was highly invested in this story. The young girl who was the narrator and main character was, I imagined, a lot like myself and I related to her.
In the story (although I remember it only vaguely, so I'm not sure of its accuracy) the young girl grew up on or around a farm.
In the picture that accompanied the story, I recall her sitting (or laying?) in the foreground with pale skin and dark hair. In the background I remember seeing planks of wood, bracers, beams, like a barn.
I grew up pretty much on a farm. Or at least many of my younger years were spent near one and I was such an avid reader, easily relating to and being drawn to any kind of story.

When the young girl was bitten by a spider, a Black Widow, no less, I was naturally afraid for her.
At the time I didn't know much about spiders or their bites, or anything of the sort but the girl in the story was bit and almost died.

Now that I'm older I realize the drama of writing a story this way with the soul crushing fear of death at the tiny teeth marks of a spider.
But when I was young, I was petrified.

For weeks I scoured the limited pages of the internet and the few books I owned that mentioned spiders, to glean the location of the Black Widow.
I learned her markings (shiny black but with a red hour glass on the underside and occasional dots on the top) the locations in which they normally reside (warm dry climates, in dark places, cluttered and out of the way) and the consequences of being bitten (extreme pain, cramping, continuing for several days and not usually fatal except in the cases of children and elderly).

The summer after leaning all these things, or perhaps it was a few summers later, I had the unfortunate fate of actually being bitten by a spider.
It was a warm day, but not warm enough to go swimming. I remember that because I was at a friend's that had a pool, but none of us were in it.
Out in the back yard, beyond the pool, was a swing set and slide. I recall seeing many little white spiders crawling around there. Obviously, they weren't Black Widows, or even very large spiders, but there were an awful lot of them there, so I was a bit squeamish.

I can't remember now, if I ever slid down the slide but I do know that shortly after there was a sharp pain in my arm and it slowly swelled and changed color.

It wasn't a Black Widow but I was, of course, allergic.

Shockingly, at the time it happened I remember that my worst fear wasn't the allergy to spiders. I was afraid that the swelling wasn't going to be gone by the time I had to play viola at a concert a week or so away.

Still, I think I have reason to believe (especially seeing as I remember it so well) that this situation, coupled with that story that spooked me so much, is probably the origin of my arachnophobia.

Spiders and Spooks and Special Circumstances

I never used to be afraid of spiders. In fact, if you have ever been around me whilst in the presence of a spider, chances are you wouldn't know at all that I am.
More than once, I have been in a group of people (often all of us present are girls) and a spider has dropped down from some crevice or hole with the purpose of frightening us.
I mean, really, why else would a tiny 8 legged creature fling itself down within the reach of us much larger creatures? We have the ability to destroy a spider in a moment. With our fists.
Surely a spider knows this? Surely we have been a natural enemy since our birth?
Perhaps a spider is just the most daring of creatures. Maybe the brave mark of the animal kingdom should be the spider and not the lion. Lions are stronger and faster than the average human.
What bravery does it take to fell an enemy weaker than yourself?

But I digress.

As my friends and I stand, accosted by this poor creature there is often exclamations near shrieking and sometimes a call for the aid of some more masculine member of our party.
I however, am known to take up the torch of the hero, or heroine as it were, and rescue the group from the spider.

I don't kill them. Whether because I don't have the heart to do so or lack the nerve is of little consequence. A simple cup and paper trick removes the spider to an outside location.
Simple and easy, yes?
It's something I have been doing for years. Even as a kid I used to capture spiders and beetles and other unsightly or spooking bugs and release them away from the fearful sibling or friend.

It wasn't until I was older that I even noticed it bothered me.

You see, if I find myself face to face with the creatures, on my own, my pulse quickens and I catch my breath.

It's much, much harder for me to dispense of spiders when I'm doing it for myself.

Sometimes I think that it is because my self-preservation instinct is rigged for "flight" while my instinct for protecting others is latched to "fight".

And the wheel keeps turning on...

This morning, I awoke from a terrible dream.
In my dream, the world was in chaos. Revolutionaries, Mercenaries, Military, and everyone in between was fighting with each other. Fighting for something I didn't know or didn't understand.
I took refuge in a large mansion that had been converted into stores but I wasn't the only one.
The fighting continued inside and I ran and hide and cowered for my life. I couldn't fight back.
At some point, I found myself alone, in a room, hiding behind the exploding fluffy innards of a beautiful ex-chair and into the room in which I hid, came a man in a suit followed by another in street clothes.
They righted three of the tipped chairs and took a seat in two of them gesturing toward the third.
"Come out and take a seat. I don't want to harm you. Just talk with you," the suited man said.
His voice and manner I recall to be smooth, elegant, and deadly.
But he knew where I was, so I had no choice but to emerge.
So I stood and took a seat on the third chair, listening as the sounds of battle slowly died away outside.

I can analyze this scene over and over again. Compare it with the scenes that came before it and after it.

But none of it prepared me for the reality I woke to this morning.

My mother stepped out of the house, on her way to work, with my youngest siblings at her side, on their way to school.
Outside, her car, was no where to be seen.

I heard her yelling for my father. I came down the stairs the chaos of my dream echoing in the anger and panic in her voice.
A couple phone calls later and we find out, my mother's car was repossessed.

I am aware that these circumstances occur in a moderate frequency. A car is a luxury item after all, and luxury means that it can be removed but still, I was unprepared for the reality I was thrown into this morning.

"The rich get richer and the poor get poorer."
I don't know who the first was to say that but I know how right they are. It costs more to get a car back from repossession than it does to pay the bill in the first place.
And how, prey tell, do they expect you to pay so much more when you struggled to pay in the first place?

I'll never know.

My dream was chaos, disorder, fear.
I wonder if it was a reflection of the world.
My family isn't the only one that is faced with this problem and it's only going to get worse I fear.
I just hope that things change before the world breaks down into world wide violence akin to the riots in London.

And I pray that each one of us is given the chance to be part of the change as well.

Movies

Warning: This post is a bit rambling.

Recently, it has been the mission of a couple of great friends of mine, (namely one) to introduce me to the great movies I've never seen.
Funny enough, it's not a difficult task.
When confronted with a conversation about movies or actors I often find myself hovering on the peripheral trying to connect the ever elusive dots of titles, actions, and plot particulars only to turn into myself empty handed, alone, and blank faced.
It was a sad fate I never realized existed for me.
That is until some poor souls took pity on my lack of cultural knowledge.
Although I have yet to even skim over the vast depths of the ocean of beautiful movies and without said experience my knowledge is limited, I am still disappointed that I am forced to admit that I still haven't come to an understanding of the reasons why people seem to enjoy movie watching so much.
That may seem like a strange comment, and yes in face I have actually seen a few movies that I consider my own personal favorites ("How to Train Your Dragon", "Scott Pilgrim" and "Whisper of the Heart". And the added LoTR Trilogy which I'm quite fond of.) While excellent movies, I do understand that these don't exactly represent the vast majority of movies out there so perhaps that's where the fault in my understanding lies.
I enjoy movie watching on occasion. But only with other people. Never will you ever catch me alone watching a movie I've never seen before unless it is a movie someone has recommended to me or I've heard a lot about.
For me, movies are something to be experienced and shared. They come alive when discussed with others.
Of course, that might also be because I still cannot determine the faults of any movies without discussion with someone else.
Every movie is a good movie in my mind until I talk with someone who has more movie watching under their belt.
I don't kid myself that I will be a movie lover, or an active pursuer of film any time soon, but I beg my audience to have patience with me and my inability to associate with your pop-culture movie references.

//rant.

Prompts, Grammer, and Blogging

A long time ago, I declared I would attempt to make this a regular and active blog. I had decided that I would post every single day even if what I had to say was utterly and completely boring.
My hope was that the consistency of writing would keep my brain active.
Obviously, this hasn't been the case.

Then the question came to me. What does one do when stuck on a problem like this?
I was able to answer the same way most of us do in this age.
I Google-d it.
And thanks to Google, I have now found a prompt to respond to.

suggested by Spelling Search

"How important are spelling and grammar in the world of blogging? Is it the thought that really counts, or does lack of formality destroy the message?"

I personally believe that grammar and spelling ARE important in the world of blogging, but perhaps not in the same manner that it is important in, let's say, a school or work setting.
For instance:
if i decide that im gonna type like this on my blog & have no punctuation at all or capitalize any of my letters then i think a lot of readers will suddenly loose all respect for anything i might have to say
right?

However, to talk in a very particular and precise manner, as if said blog is alike to a research paper, can not, and will not, be as fun to read for some readers.

0f K0uR2e, IF J00r 5U8JeCT MAtTEr peRtAIN2 t0 THin92 tHAt R l33t i7 Mi9h7 83 83773R 70 7yP3 IN l337 5P33k 50 42 70 4Pp34l 70 j00R 4UDI3nc3.

It just goes to show that that silly rule your teachers always told you (and you undoubtedly ignored at least once) "Always consider your audience" IS actually a very important rule.
But, if you can say what you need to say, how and when you want to say it. Then do it. If you have enough sense of grammar and a decent spell check for people to understand your argument than it's A-okay with me.

Just remember that many grammar/spelling defenders will not hesitate to shoot you down in an argument by insinuating that you lack intelligence. And others will stop talking to you altogether. (Noble or not, they won't fight against an unarmed enemy).

So, my answer short and sweet: It's your blog. Write how you write. But be aware of who your readers are and may be.

Oh, and always proofread. 

Norway

I don't know what people think about Norway generally. I will be the first to admit that beyond it being a peaceful country, I don't know much about it at all.

But recent attacks on the country obviously turn the eyes of the world to the people there.

People die every day. Every single day there are murders and attacks all over the world and specifically here in my home country of the United States, it's easy to accept that fact.

The fact that violence is common. We actually become desensitized to it and maybe, for some, it's a good thing.

But I don't agree.

Those people of Norway were calm, peaceful, and like anyone else, undeserving of the pain they are now faced with.

Just to give you an idea of how peaceful their country is, a young man was talking to the ABC reporter, (http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/oslo-explosion-blast-result-massive-vehicle-bomb-sources/story?id=14134197) explaining that government officials would walk down the street, 4 or 5 blocks from their office to the parliament building. No escort, no fear.

Now, that's all going to change. Now, the police force will be stronger, the fear thicker, the people less trusting.

So what, it's just a bombing right? We hear about suicide bombers in the Middle East all the time. Soldiers are attacked every day.

But, “every day” is the problem. Bombing, the death of people, even small amounts is something that we Americans seem unjustly acclimatized to.

But consider this. Consider the other half of the attacks that day.

Imagine you are them. Imagine you were there. Imagine this:

You are 15-16 years old. You woke up one summer morning and went about your day at camp. It's warm, but not too warm because the water is still too cold to swim happily. You are going about your day learning about politics and about each other when every one is called together for an announcement. Laughing with your friends, you joke about how you are being called together to be given a stern talking to for the silly practical joke you and your pals did the night before. Just mud in the shoes of your fellow tent mates.

But then one of the camp councilors gets up in front of the group, face red, eyes swollen, “Earlier today,” she explains, “there was a car bomb exploded in front of the Government Center. We don't know much more than that. Please, if you know someone, were related to someone there, please stay calm and know that people are working hard to help everyone there. All regular activities are canceled for the day, and we will keep you informed.”

She steps away from the group and you look to your friends. They are just as dumbstruck and nervous as you are. Suddenly everything you thought was important to get done today vanishes from your mind as you are overtaken by an unfamiliar sense of fear.

A mere hour later, a police officer shows up. A friendly face, with all the credentials necessary to represent a security force just checking on the youth at the camp.

He calls people over to him. You don't want to go over because you are still uneasy. Or perhaps you are shy. Either way your generally warm perception of the man is destroyed when gun shots and blood erupt from the friends that did approach him.

For a moment you are in shock, you can't believe what just happened, but when the shots continue, fired by the police officer you thought was there to help, you run.

And you run faster and faster.

And all around you, others are running. Crying. Screaming.

The water you run towards, your only escape, is cold and already fallen bodies are dying it blood red.

You are only 16 years old, praying that you will escape.

This is the situation in Norway.

Children have died at the hands of a man whose motive is still unknown. At the hands of a man who deceived them.

A country that has known only peace since the World Wars, a country where the Nobel Peace Prize is celebrated and awarded, is now faced with a brutal attack they never could have prepared for.

If this is the way the world is turning, I fear for the future.

And I hope that I'm not the only one looking for a change.

Not Quite a Homonym

Sometimes I hear phrases incorrectly.

I think this is something everyone can relate to. Those moments when someone around you or someone you are conversing with, makes a comment that you misinterpret, mis-hear, or misunderstand.

Sometimes it is easily corrected or ignored.

Sometimes you understand exactly what is being said, even though there is a moment of miscommunication.

And sometimes it ends in hilarity.

For me usually such a situation is remedied in my brain via context clues and inflections. I can understand what is being said regardless of the fumbling speech pattern that seems to have dropped from the lips of my conversation partner.

However, there have been several moments recently where context clues did nothing to correct me and in fact my imaginative brain ran with the incorrect statement until I was corrected.

For instance:

A couple nights ago my sister and I, (we share a bedroom) were getting ready for bed. Climbing under the covers of her bunk, my sister said aloud, “My bed is breathing.”

Now let me explain that it was late at night and we had just finished watching several episodes of the supernatural/fantasy anime XXXholic, so at first, the phrase, re-conjured in my mind, became a joking reference to the series.

However, that's not in my sister's nature.

So, I figured her comment was actually a reference to the wind coming in through the window moving her bedsheets in a way that was easily personified as “breathing”.

Still, that didn't seem like something you say, so casually, I asked her,

“Did you say breathing?”

Nope. What she said was, freezing. Her bed was freezing.

The incident, although hysterical, was nothing compared to what had happened only a day before hand.

My brother was home for the weekend carted back from his little town by his best friend.

To me, it was a strange circumstance because my brother lives several hours away and I was unaware that his best friend, whom I communicate with often, was making said trip. So naturally, I was inclined to ask of my brother how such a plan came to be.

The details of that plan were not as important or lengthy as I thought they would be, but the execution of it was.

My brothers friend showed up in my brothers little town long before my brother had gotten home from work. Being a tiny town with not much industry, there wasn't much for his friend to do.

So, as my brother explained, his friend proceeded to check out the local grocery stores and what not but soon becoming bored with such a useless enterprise, decided to play around and do some Parkwhoring in the parking lot until he was kicked out.

I've never been up to date on the latest fashions nor seen the latest tv shows or movies and I've certainly never been too culturally aware so it was no surprise that I'd never heard of Parkwhoring.

Still, my mind was instantly overwhelmed by the potentiality of such an amazingly exciting sounding game!

Slamming your automobile into gear, revving up the engine in anticipation, waiting for that moment where someone, some helpless and unaware patron would be making their way to the space that seconds ago had been occupied.

You spy them.

You spy the spot they aim for.

And in an exhilarating rush of adrenaline and oil you speed up and cut them off, stealing the spot just before they could enter it.

Windows down in the summer air, you can smell the heat rising off the concrete and once the echo of screeching tires dies down, you can hear the yelling of the driver you just interrupted.

They yell, you ignore.

It's not just 50pts won for stealing the closest spot to the grocery store door, but an additional point bonus for not hitting or scratching anything.

No matter how much they yell, there is nothing they can do about it!

And so you continue, again and again making your move with extreme precision, the game getting more difficult with each succession because the more you Parkwhore, the more likely you will be kicked out and get a game over.

“I've never heard about that,” I conclude my private imaginative moment by making a responsive statement to my brothers recounting.

“You've never heard of Parkour? Street running?”

Illusions shattered I concede that indeed yes, I know what Parkour is.

But if anyone would like to try my apparently newly invented, Parkwhoring, Let me know.

Lessons from Pokemon

I really despise trying to make introduction posts, I find that they often are wordy, either overly self-praising or overly self-critical, and never an accurate portrayal of anything important. 

Or at least, that the way all of my attempts have felt.

So instead, I'm going to tell you a little anecdote, and if you aren't a gamer I apologize, but perhaps you will enjoy it anyway? Or maybe you'll like my future posts? Who knows?

Anyway, here goes.

Before parting ways with my brother for the summer, he handed me a small rectangular case.

“For after you graduate,” he told me.

Inside the case, I instantly discovered a small red cartridge: Pokemon Ruby.

I cannot attest to how happy I was about him lending the game to me. Even though the battery has since run dry.

You see, although I self-proclaimed as an avid gamer, I have never owned a Pokemon game, or a gameboy for that matter.

It isn't because I am against them! Not at all! Quite the opposite, I always wanted one, but I guess it just never worked out. Instead, I made due with the hand-me-ups of my younger siblings. Which worked fine for me, except when it came to 1-save-file games like Pokemon.

ANYWAY.

I told several people about my acquisition and one good friend of mine posed a very good warning to me.

“Rose,” he says. “Now I know you love fire-type Pokemon. But I am warning you now, the first gym is Rock type. Fire is not going to help you. You really should go with one of the other two. Okay?”

“Sure!” I told him.

If only I had remembered...

***BEGIN DRAMATIC RETELLING***

“OH NO!!” I shouted, in a voice that probably startled my fellow residents as the person I had been searching for was attacked by some strange creature in the tall grasses near home.

I was only 10 minutes into the game, but I was hooked. I was so utterly engrossed in the beautiful, heart wrenching storyline that I had forgotten myself for a moment, and if it wasn't for the horror of the situation I might have been embarrassed for myself and my unnecessarily alarming outcry.

Still within those ten minuets, so much had happened!

First, I had to travel in the back of a poorly packed moving truck, fearing with every bump the tumbling of some deadly object upon my poor 12 year old head.

Then, I saw the two biggest men I had ever seen in my life moving our things into the house, only to discover that they weren't men, they were Pokemon!

I already knew about Pokemon, so luckily, the realization was quickly set upon my immature brain. My mother and I had moved out here because of Pokemon, well, because my father was a Pokemon trainer, actually, he was Gym Leader, and personally, I was more than a little eager to follow in his footsteps.

Maybe that's why, the moment I had set my clock on the wall I ran to the Professors' lab.

The next dramatic thing that happened was being told that I had to go and find the Professor myself, all alone, at 12 years old, in this strange new place.

But I did it anyway and now I was shouting in fear for the Professor's life!

“In my bag, get a Pokemon! From my bag! Hurry!” The Professor cried out as he dodged the attacks of the wild beast before him.

I looked at the three Pokeballs inside his pack, knowing that I should carefully consider every aspect about them before making my selection and instead grabbing Torchic because fire is awesome and potentially much be powerful than the other two against the grass/bug/creature/thing that the Professor was currently fighting.

My rescue was, by sheer bravery and skill, a success, and as a reward, I was teamed with a beautiful partner who I named Phoenix.

From there, I trained long and hard.

I collected all 14 of the Pokemon available to me before the first Gym.

I acquired the Cut HM so that once I received that first badge I could cut down all the trees that blocked my way.

I fought and defeated every trainer I crossed paths with, in the interest of strengthening my Pokemon.

And after 7 hours of game play, all 15 of my Pokemon averaged level 10.

Finally, I entered the Stone Gym and successfully defeated the two lackeys inside only to be utterly massacred by the Gym Leader Roxanne in a matter of seconds.

My lesson to you?

DO NOT START THE GAME WITH THE FIRE POKEMON.