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Aug 31, 2005

Letters from an American . . .

Yesterday, in American literature, our teacher assigned us two readings from J. Hector St. John de Crevecoeur's Letters from an American Farmer. Despite the looming difficulty of the semester and an unfocused feeling within myself, I delved deep into the readings as soon as I returned home from class.

His thoughts and feelings express so many feelings that I currently harbor: confusion, disbelief, alienation, and a slight hope dwindling into despair like water leaking through a civ. In "Letter Three", de Crevecoeur describes how he would've felt if he had been there when the Europeans first discovered and established the land later to be called America.

"It is not composed...of great lords who possess everything and a herd of people who have nothing...no aristocratical families, no courts, no kings...The rich and poor are not so farm removed from each other as they are in Europe."

What a dream. De Crevecoeur continues:

"We have no princes from whom we toil, starve and bleed; we are the most perfect society..."

So it might have seemed to those who first traveled to the land of America in order to escape harassment and suppression in their respective fatherlands. De Crevecouer's letters were published in 1782, and in moving on to his later letters one senses a larger notion of despair and disconnection from his fellow men. Immediately in the first paragraph of the eighth letter, he says:

"...what is a man when no longer connected with society; or when he finds himself surrounded by a convulsed and half dissolved one? He cannot live in solitude."

The writing that follows is prophetic, and strikes a deep chord within my heart. De Crevecouer's words are still read today because, prophetically, they apply.

"As a citizen...of society, I find that any kind of opposition to its now prevailing sentiments immediately begets hatred."

These words too perfectly describe the desperation that I feel. And it is in this type of detail that I can explain it best. A couple of months ago, I had a conversation with a mentor of mine where I expressed my frustration as the current social state of our society, and the condition of the entire world. He understood, and sent me a book entitled "The Impossible Will Take a While," a book comprised of essays from different figures all throughout history, a book meant to inspire and renew a reason for action. I read the first essay, and only stumbled across the book while cleaning my room the other day.

Each day it seems focus on what is possible becomes lost, and the all the images of the impossible are engraved deeper into the stone.

Aug 29, 2005

Regret . . .

I've been mulling over this feeling called regret, thinking whether or not it's possible to live life without much regret. Like so many different things in life, regret has a rather large, blurry line that separates the black from the white.

If one would have no regret, does that mean that they've simply done everything right? Maybe, but not likely. Is regret a large enough rock to crush a man? Is guilt a sister to regret? For instance, for action A that I committed in the past, I feel regret. But must I also feel guilt? Guilt at the wasted time, or the souls I've injured? And where along the road can I assess the damage done to myself?

I've lowered myself many times. How do I feel about it? My past looks much more sketchy from this view, and I no longer know which field I belong on, don't know where I fit in.

So, of the chain of events and actions that have brought me this far, which ones would I change, which ones do I regret? Guilt and regret are two emotions I know all too well. I am a spinner, no longer spinning webs of lies, but spinning pain into strength. I will continue to hold onto a fleeting optimism, until my will runs out, and hope to always use regret and guilt as hard lessons.

Aug 28, 2005

The Night Before

The evening sky sets in. Tis the night before it all begins again.

School starts tomorrow, and this weekend has been an eventful one. Two roommates moved out of the apartment, and one more came in. The mood within this structure has changed into a vibrant, positive one, but in my stomach I feel a sort of teetering on the edge sensation.

It is senior year, and if all goes well, by the end of 2006 I will have completed two degrees and a minor. And what does that all mean? What's next? Graduate school is the aim, but will I be on target?

It has been three months since ending a four-year relationship. There is so much I took from the years, yet so much naivete fills this body, and I have much to learn that I should already know. The strings in my heart lay dormant for these summer months, but somehow awakened once again, which frightens me. I did not want or ask. My best insurance as to avoid any sort of situation is that she is an angel unattainable.

The western sky grows yellow. Feather clouds float eastward, dissipating slowly like the keen strokes of a brush, into blue. Where is god in all of this? I can't seem to settle onto a definition of who he/she is, or if there might not even be a he or a she tending the light at the end of this all.

All I need is a voice in the darkness, a quick flash, or an awakening of my mind. A soft whisper from a tender voice, soothing the fear growing within, telling me that everything is going to be all right, that purpose will come to me, better through slow revelation than submission.

Aug 15, 2005

Rest

My rest last night felt exceptional.

The summer air cools early in the evening, the absence of the heat outside now making it comfortable enough to sleep through the night without two fans. At one point, my sleep was interrupted by the sound of a loud vehicle passing by fast, too fast, but I was jarred only for a moment.

The tan futon I sleep on each night isn't large at all, and last night I finally opened it up so that it resembled a bed more than a couch. And I dreamt, and slept, and did so for what seemed like eight hours, though it was only six, did so like a baby. In two weeks, I will have purchased an actual bed, and they may have to bring out the firehose to wake me in the morning from then on.

I woke this morning to a soft sunlight and the songs of birds. The visions I dreamt last night have since been wiped from my memory.

My rest was exceptional last night.

Aug 11, 2005

Back to Normal

Kinda.

Still in lots of pain. The liquid Percoset they gave me last week did the trick, wiped the pain, but also made me rather woozy, blurred my vision.

This week they gave me Hydrocodeine, which (pardon my language) isn't doing shit for the throat pain. Yay. The Percoset last week has forever immuned me from feeling other pain medication. I need the high class stuff now. Need to walk into a Walgreen's asking for five pounds of Mo-phine.

It happens. Believe me.

Aug 1, 2005

Off to Surgery

Tomorrow morning at this time I'll be in a hospital room, most likely in some kind of comfortable, recliner-like chair. To my right or my left will be a rectangular, metal tray holding various medical equipment. I won't be able to see what's on the tray though, because there will be a while cloth covering the scalpels and all so, so as to not frighten me.

I'm not all that enthused about having my throat cut up. Why couldn't my parents have removed my tonsils when I was a child? Spending a week's paid vacation sitting on my ass with gooey popsicle sticks scattered across the floor is not my ideal choice, believe me. I've had surgery only one other time, and that was to have bone cut out of my mouth, a.k.a the wisdom teeth. That wasn't such a large deal. Something this time has me feeling a bit more frightened.

I must finish now and call the hospital. I've forgotten the time of my surgery, possibly on purpose.