The prolife movement is really booming. The column in the post was about the great number of young people at the March for Life. WOW! If this keeps up, I think Roe v. Wade may be overturned. Lots of people understand the hurt that abortion causes--I think prochoicers dance around the issue.
Then there is the ad that will be aired during the superbowel. It's a Florida quarterback whose mom chose life when doctors advised her to abort. Prochoicers are peeved, but there is no reason for them to be angry. The message is positive and doesn't attack women's right to choose.
I love the way O'Reilly out it! (to prochoicer): So what exactly are you offended by? Are you offended that this mother gave birth to her baby who is now alive and doing well?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
On Friday, I volunteered in my mom's classroom. The classroom is pretty--decorated like an average classroom. On a little whitboard, my mom wrote "Today we will..."
Then in trotted her first graders. The kids are all different cultures, and looking at them is like going on an imaginary trip around the world. It speaks to the unity of people, at the very least.
K. has learning problems, and by the way he rocks his head and his eyes dart around the classroom, you can tell. I sat in a seat near the sink. The children could immediately guess I was the teacher's daughter--ha, ha, maybe if my mom hadn't posted a large photo of my sister and I near the workstation it wouldn't have been so easy to guess!
The children came to me to look through the ads and pick a toy they wanted. The girls all picked barbies and the boys play stations.
In the third grade, S. was afraid of me and wouldn't come over for help with her story. Sh. I can tell is my mom's favorite child. She's imaginative, and her hair is like in a poof on top of her head. I don't know what nationality she is. I thought that she'll probably be an English major when she grows up. She had a cold and was blowing her nose and kept getting up to walk around the classroom until my mom called her back.
***
I also hiked part of the Appalachian Trail--two miles of it! I wondered what it would be like to hike the whole thing. My dad said about 20 to 30 people do it every year. It would be a cool undertaking. Maybe you'd get eaten by a bear. When you hike the trail, you have to stay in little shelters along the way. At the beginning of the trail there are the railroad tracks. I bet those tracks go all the way to Georgia.
Then in trotted her first graders. The kids are all different cultures, and looking at them is like going on an imaginary trip around the world. It speaks to the unity of people, at the very least.
K. has learning problems, and by the way he rocks his head and his eyes dart around the classroom, you can tell. I sat in a seat near the sink. The children could immediately guess I was the teacher's daughter--ha, ha, maybe if my mom hadn't posted a large photo of my sister and I near the workstation it wouldn't have been so easy to guess!
The children came to me to look through the ads and pick a toy they wanted. The girls all picked barbies and the boys play stations.
In the third grade, S. was afraid of me and wouldn't come over for help with her story. Sh. I can tell is my mom's favorite child. She's imaginative, and her hair is like in a poof on top of her head. I don't know what nationality she is. I thought that she'll probably be an English major when she grows up. She had a cold and was blowing her nose and kept getting up to walk around the classroom until my mom called her back.
***
I also hiked part of the Appalachian Trail--two miles of it! I wondered what it would be like to hike the whole thing. My dad said about 20 to 30 people do it every year. It would be a cool undertaking. Maybe you'd get eaten by a bear. When you hike the trail, you have to stay in little shelters along the way. At the beginning of the trail there are the railroad tracks. I bet those tracks go all the way to Georgia.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Today I went to McDonald's for breakfast. The oatmeal is pretty good, but I wonder if they put some spices in it? I wish everything wasn't such a pain! Starbucks has no free wireless internet and all of the stupid computers at the library aren't functioning. I have to get these work applications done. I want to go to Catholic U. tonight for one of the campus activies, but I'm worried they'll kick me out since I'm not a student.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
So today I got locked out of the house. I hung out at the library for three hours. I didnt have money so I couldnt buy any food. I felt really hungry. Then I watched Leap Year at the movie theatre. My mom and I were supposed to bake tonight but I got home too late. Oh, well, maybe I didn't want to anyway. But I was still disappointed, because we were supposed to do this on Sunday.
The pool where I swam felt good. But why are there always so many people in the locker room?
The pool where I swam felt good. But why are there always so many people in the locker room?
So this morning I woke up and realized that I needed a better facebook pic. I haven't worn my retainer in awhile, but I dont give a damn. I love my new curtains...who-hoo! Maybe I'll eat something for breakfast, but I never feel stupid hungry anyways. La-la-la today is going to be a great day.
This IS BORING ME!
This IS BORING ME!
Friday, January 15, 2010
Ocean City the conclusion
We drove down the long road out of Ocean City. We passed by the hotel and other abandoned buildings. Over the bridge with the bluish-green water below. The bridge is just a slab of concrete over the ocean.
One night we had also driven through town, past the pond where a Christmas tree floated in the middle. The tree was small, and lonely perhaps isolated out on those waters.
I asked my father if we could come again. “Come again?” he repeated, for that could mean many things.
“To this place,” I said. “I know we really can’t. Even if we did come back, it wouldn’t be the same.” I will have grown and changed by then. And even now the beach is eroding. A recent hurricane swept the sands up along the street near the parked cars. Every year the sand is piled a little higher around the dunes.
It’s funny how I’ll never get this moment back, and maybe I won’t even remember it right. That’s because I won’t see things the same, so maybe it will be like the fading sand---a slight memory that I can barely remember at all.
“Goodbye beach,” I whispered as we drove away. The last few flecks of sand flew out of my hair in the highway breeze, but I didn’t mind. I was sad but I was content.
One night we had also driven through town, past the pond where a Christmas tree floated in the middle. The tree was small, and lonely perhaps isolated out on those waters.
I asked my father if we could come again. “Come again?” he repeated, for that could mean many things.
“To this place,” I said. “I know we really can’t. Even if we did come back, it wouldn’t be the same.” I will have grown and changed by then. And even now the beach is eroding. A recent hurricane swept the sands up along the street near the parked cars. Every year the sand is piled a little higher around the dunes.
It’s funny how I’ll never get this moment back, and maybe I won’t even remember it right. That’s because I won’t see things the same, so maybe it will be like the fading sand---a slight memory that I can barely remember at all.
“Goodbye beach,” I whispered as we drove away. The last few flecks of sand flew out of my hair in the highway breeze, but I didn’t mind. I was sad but I was content.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Rio's pond
This pond is great. On it are the swans. Walking around and around, I am basking in the serenity. Part of the pathway around the other side is partially obscured by a thicket. There is a playground nearby. I walk around and around the pond to make the time pass.
I love looking out at the water, life seems more beautiful with that kind of view. It’s as if looking at it turns on a switch, and I can feel at peace.
As I walk around the path, I gradually become more and more worried. The other side is a little dark. There are no other walkers that I see. As I walk around the other side, I swing my arms and pick up the pace. I look up the grassy medium and see a house and some workers. Maybe they are watching me. How can I escape? I am confident that I can swim strongly. I could make it across that pond and leave my pursuer behind.
Going near the thicket the other way around the pond, I hesitate before I reach the bushes. Right next to me is a playground where a mother sits watching her child play. I wonder if she thinks she is safe. If she disappeared, who would know? Would anyone miss her? What if I am witnessing her last joy? I just saw someone else pass through the thicket, so it must be safe to go that way.
So I walk right through, but my fear isn’t totally obliterated. I walk with trepidation, uncertainty. When I make it through, I think how silly I must have been. Why did I worry? It seems unimportant now.
I pass certain people on the path, but they seem not to see me. I wonder if my reflection is in this pond, leaving something important for the world to see. The joggers may see me as they charge over the bridge on the pond.
I love looking out at the water, life seems more beautiful with that kind of view. It’s as if looking at it turns on a switch, and I can feel at peace.
As I walk around the path, I gradually become more and more worried. The other side is a little dark. There are no other walkers that I see. As I walk around the other side, I swing my arms and pick up the pace. I look up the grassy medium and see a house and some workers. Maybe they are watching me. How can I escape? I am confident that I can swim strongly. I could make it across that pond and leave my pursuer behind.
Going near the thicket the other way around the pond, I hesitate before I reach the bushes. Right next to me is a playground where a mother sits watching her child play. I wonder if she thinks she is safe. If she disappeared, who would know? Would anyone miss her? What if I am witnessing her last joy? I just saw someone else pass through the thicket, so it must be safe to go that way.
So I walk right through, but my fear isn’t totally obliterated. I walk with trepidation, uncertainty. When I make it through, I think how silly I must have been. Why did I worry? It seems unimportant now.
I pass certain people on the path, but they seem not to see me. I wonder if my reflection is in this pond, leaving something important for the world to see. The joggers may see me as they charge over the bridge on the pond.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
"Ocean City" Part 2
With my head on the pillow, I can build castles in the sky. Anxiety disappears and my mind wanders, undisturbed. I wonder how long I can stay this way: between worlds, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Outside, the lights are still blinking from the Christmas light show. It makes me feel alive because here in this room, everything is dull. The room is decorated in such lifeless colors that I feel like I am stuck in a classroom where the professor is talking in drab monotones.
The pool is located in what looks like a former greenhouse. The sliding glass door across the front is partway open and covered in steam. Through it I can see the blinking headlights of cars outside as they make their way through the festival of lights set up for the residents in winter. I wonder what kind of person would live in Ocean City in the wintertime. Bustling in the summer, the town is nearly dead in the winter.
Although there is no definite reason to be afraid, standing alone on the cool concrete on the pool deck, I have an apprehensive feeling like when you know that something potentially ominous could happen. Of course I know that it would be easy for someone to come through that sliding glass door.
So then getting into the pool I make up my mind that I will get in quickly. I won’t prolong it like I normally do. The water is warm, and I realize this with some surprise. I wonder why this should come as a surprise, since I had felt the water before and already knew that it was warm. Maybe it’s because I hadn’t realized how much warmer the water is compared to the air. So then I think how getting in should be no problem. I submerge myself, and then I suddenly feel that sense of satisfaction that comes from reaching some personal goal.
Once in the water, I swim laps back and forth. The pool is small in diameter, making me have to turn around frequently. It feels nice, and in its pleasure, my fear that an intruder may come to hurt me is sort of on hold. It is there, but somehow not urgent enough to compel me to find safety. I tell myself, just a few more, and then I need to get out and get out of here. I go through in my head how I will take one towel from the supply provided in a basket on the pool deck to dry myself. But I will also need another one since those towels are so small. I think how I will do it very fast. I will not go slow because the air will feel so cold. It will be like ripping off a band-aid.
In winter in Ocean City, the boardwalk is a pleasant place. Mostly empty of people, one can enjoy the broad expanse of its wooden path and an uninterrupted view of the ocean. The air is chilly, but the slight coolness adds to the atmosphere. Here a certain weight—perhaps the cares of day to day life—is lifted. It’s almost as if, in the dark blue mass of the ocean, a new breath of life is found.
The comforting thing about the ocean is that it never changes. The waves will come in and out, guided by the steady hand of time.
Outside, the lights are still blinking from the Christmas light show. It makes me feel alive because here in this room, everything is dull. The room is decorated in such lifeless colors that I feel like I am stuck in a classroom where the professor is talking in drab monotones.
The pool is located in what looks like a former greenhouse. The sliding glass door across the front is partway open and covered in steam. Through it I can see the blinking headlights of cars outside as they make their way through the festival of lights set up for the residents in winter. I wonder what kind of person would live in Ocean City in the wintertime. Bustling in the summer, the town is nearly dead in the winter.
Although there is no definite reason to be afraid, standing alone on the cool concrete on the pool deck, I have an apprehensive feeling like when you know that something potentially ominous could happen. Of course I know that it would be easy for someone to come through that sliding glass door.
So then getting into the pool I make up my mind that I will get in quickly. I won’t prolong it like I normally do. The water is warm, and I realize this with some surprise. I wonder why this should come as a surprise, since I had felt the water before and already knew that it was warm. Maybe it’s because I hadn’t realized how much warmer the water is compared to the air. So then I think how getting in should be no problem. I submerge myself, and then I suddenly feel that sense of satisfaction that comes from reaching some personal goal.
Once in the water, I swim laps back and forth. The pool is small in diameter, making me have to turn around frequently. It feels nice, and in its pleasure, my fear that an intruder may come to hurt me is sort of on hold. It is there, but somehow not urgent enough to compel me to find safety. I tell myself, just a few more, and then I need to get out and get out of here. I go through in my head how I will take one towel from the supply provided in a basket on the pool deck to dry myself. But I will also need another one since those towels are so small. I think how I will do it very fast. I will not go slow because the air will feel so cold. It will be like ripping off a band-aid.
In winter in Ocean City, the boardwalk is a pleasant place. Mostly empty of people, one can enjoy the broad expanse of its wooden path and an uninterrupted view of the ocean. The air is chilly, but the slight coolness adds to the atmosphere. Here a certain weight—perhaps the cares of day to day life—is lifted. It’s almost as if, in the dark blue mass of the ocean, a new breath of life is found.
The comforting thing about the ocean is that it never changes. The waves will come in and out, guided by the steady hand of time.
"Impressions from Ocean City"
At night the beach is quiet and the moon is full. I am sitting on the sand. I imagine that this beach is a stage. The yellow moon shines a spotlight on me. In its gentle glow, my soul becomes fluid. Now it is free to rise and fall in the rythmn of the waves.
Here I don’t feel imprisoned by the things in my life I cannot change. This beach is a place for the imagination and my soul is free riding the waves.
My father is far off down the beach walking towards me. I cannot decide whether to meet him halfway. The decision feels larger than the ocean before me. My soul is being pulled from the water and I am sad, as if something has been lost forever.
I walk to meet him. This way I have a little control. I won’t allow him to come to me. It’s as if I’m saying, “I see you coming to me. But I won’t sit back and let the events around me determine my fate. I can take charge.”
When my father is five feet from me, I again have another decision to make. I feel annoyed by this indecision. If I had more confidence, I would blurt things out, embraced by my surroundings like a pebble pulled by the current in a clear stream. But I don’t have that ability, and right now I am stuck, no more able to avoid this decision than a fly caught in a spider’s web can wring himself free.
I say “hi” first. My father asks if I’ve noticed the sailboats coming closer on the water like small birds riding the crest of a wave. I say that I saw them and I ask him what it means.
“Why are they sailing so close here?” he asks. His brow is wrinkled. He is confused. He has misinterpreted my meaning. I only wanted to know how this image of white sailboats on the rough bluish waters strikes him.
“I’ve never seen sailboats in Ocean City,” he says.
He couldn’t answer my question, and I am tired like a pianist whose hit the wrong key again and again. I close my eyes and feel the cool breeze on my cheek and the wind tossing my hair. I can hear the sound of the water rushing and seagulls in the distance, and although my eyes are closed, I can see perfectly how the driftwood beaten by the water must look as it floats close to the shore.
The water comes rushing in, and at its edge is a white foam. Then it retreats back to its source and the foam remains in the shape of an arc on the sand. Watching this scene, I realize how true is the old saying that most things in life prefer to go home.
But the white foam is like a rebel. It is a part of the water, and then it disengages itself and stays behind making an imprint in the sand.
My father is waiting to go. I am sad to leave, and I try to figure out why this experience feels so beautiful.
Maybe I love the way the yellow moon in the night sky is reflecting light on the water. Or do I enjoy sharing this moment with my father? I wonder why the two are separate things. I long for my father to be like the light coming from the moon, soft and gentle, yet strong and trustworthy and knowing the way things are supposed to be.
But maybe that is not doable. He has his opinion, and I am alone in this moment, letting the view melt into me like chocolate over a warm yellow cake.
Inside of me, if I reach far enough, I can find strength. Although I walk alone, I believe that I am being moved along by the hands of people holding up my body. It is perhaps the way a caterpillar moves along the ground, inch by inch.
My father is standing there, and the moon is shining on him, making his features stand out. I see the stubble of his unshaved face and the small band-aid on his temple where he had a recent procedure to remove skin cancer.
I wish I had mind-reading powers and could know how he feels in this moment, what he sees when he looks at that moon. Nonetheless I know it is beautiful anyway, father and daughter watching the moon together. Maybe when he dies or even just when I move away, moments like this will comfort me.
Memories change with the passage of time, which makes little rivulets in the mind like the little rivulets the water makes in a well-traveled stream.
If I could paint, I would put this image on paper and then I’d always have a picture of the way I see it now.
Here I don’t feel imprisoned by the things in my life I cannot change. This beach is a place for the imagination and my soul is free riding the waves.
My father is far off down the beach walking towards me. I cannot decide whether to meet him halfway. The decision feels larger than the ocean before me. My soul is being pulled from the water and I am sad, as if something has been lost forever.
I walk to meet him. This way I have a little control. I won’t allow him to come to me. It’s as if I’m saying, “I see you coming to me. But I won’t sit back and let the events around me determine my fate. I can take charge.”
When my father is five feet from me, I again have another decision to make. I feel annoyed by this indecision. If I had more confidence, I would blurt things out, embraced by my surroundings like a pebble pulled by the current in a clear stream. But I don’t have that ability, and right now I am stuck, no more able to avoid this decision than a fly caught in a spider’s web can wring himself free.
I say “hi” first. My father asks if I’ve noticed the sailboats coming closer on the water like small birds riding the crest of a wave. I say that I saw them and I ask him what it means.
“Why are they sailing so close here?” he asks. His brow is wrinkled. He is confused. He has misinterpreted my meaning. I only wanted to know how this image of white sailboats on the rough bluish waters strikes him.
“I’ve never seen sailboats in Ocean City,” he says.
He couldn’t answer my question, and I am tired like a pianist whose hit the wrong key again and again. I close my eyes and feel the cool breeze on my cheek and the wind tossing my hair. I can hear the sound of the water rushing and seagulls in the distance, and although my eyes are closed, I can see perfectly how the driftwood beaten by the water must look as it floats close to the shore.
The water comes rushing in, and at its edge is a white foam. Then it retreats back to its source and the foam remains in the shape of an arc on the sand. Watching this scene, I realize how true is the old saying that most things in life prefer to go home.
But the white foam is like a rebel. It is a part of the water, and then it disengages itself and stays behind making an imprint in the sand.
My father is waiting to go. I am sad to leave, and I try to figure out why this experience feels so beautiful.
Maybe I love the way the yellow moon in the night sky is reflecting light on the water. Or do I enjoy sharing this moment with my father? I wonder why the two are separate things. I long for my father to be like the light coming from the moon, soft and gentle, yet strong and trustworthy and knowing the way things are supposed to be.
But maybe that is not doable. He has his opinion, and I am alone in this moment, letting the view melt into me like chocolate over a warm yellow cake.
Inside of me, if I reach far enough, I can find strength. Although I walk alone, I believe that I am being moved along by the hands of people holding up my body. It is perhaps the way a caterpillar moves along the ground, inch by inch.
My father is standing there, and the moon is shining on him, making his features stand out. I see the stubble of his unshaved face and the small band-aid on his temple where he had a recent procedure to remove skin cancer.
I wish I had mind-reading powers and could know how he feels in this moment, what he sees when he looks at that moon. Nonetheless I know it is beautiful anyway, father and daughter watching the moon together. Maybe when he dies or even just when I move away, moments like this will comfort me.
Memories change with the passage of time, which makes little rivulets in the mind like the little rivulets the water makes in a well-traveled stream.
If I could paint, I would put this image on paper and then I’d always have a picture of the way I see it now.
Friday, January 1, 2010
So I heard that Harris Teeter is coming to my hometown. For those who are not familiar with Harris Teeter, it is a grocery store--pretty cool. I recently went to the one in Rockville with my family. We ate lunch in the cafeteria upstairs. Mmmm...tomato bisquette soup. I can still taste the spices and the wonderfulness of it in my mouth.
I wonder if I could move to Rockville, live in some of those sweet apartments. So I went to a movie the other day with my sister in Bethesda. So depressing..."Up in the air."
For New Year's my friend Nancy from the pool invited me to a party hosted by a friend from her church, St. Rose of Lima in Gaithersburg. I'd forgotten how much I liked dancing. Those hispanics really like to dance (Nancy is from Columbia). Everyone there was spanish but me and they kept forgetting to talk to me in English. For some reason they liked me, and when Nancy had to go to pick up her daughter, they told her, "Leave the American girl."
I wonder if I could move to Rockville, live in some of those sweet apartments. So I went to a movie the other day with my sister in Bethesda. So depressing..."Up in the air."
For New Year's my friend Nancy from the pool invited me to a party hosted by a friend from her church, St. Rose of Lima in Gaithersburg. I'd forgotten how much I liked dancing. Those hispanics really like to dance (Nancy is from Columbia). Everyone there was spanish but me and they kept forgetting to talk to me in English. For some reason they liked me, and when Nancy had to go to pick up her daughter, they told her, "Leave the American girl."
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