Hey loves.
It's me again, back in Grantham, PA. It's eerily familiar to be posting from a dorm room, but also really weird. I thought I was basically done with the traditional dorm room last year. Turns out I was pretty wrong. Somehow they all manage to smell the same.
I had a minor revelation on the trip from Craig and Laura's today. Maybe this is totally, absurdly obvious, but this is what I thought:
It all started as I was listening to a song about how if we focused on Jesus, the things of earth will grow strangely dim (in the light of his glory and grace) - I'm sure you've heard it. And I realized that, in fact, when I actually feel like there's something out there beyond what we can see and touch and smell and taste and think up, that's when the things of earth seem the sharpest and most potent.
I started to try and say in my printmaking portfolio this semester how inadequate it is to say that I love God. I haven't the faintest idea how to even begin to try to love something like God. Haven't got a clue. I mean, he's God, right? How much more ineffable and unlovable can you get?
But I do love the things of earth. Really a lot, in fact. That sounds bad, but hear me out. I love my work. I love my family. There are certain other people that I love, and even someone that I somewhere in between. I love honesty and poetry and water brushing along the tops of my feet. And so I can't love God; I don't know how. But I love these things he's given me, and maybe that's all the closer to loving God we can ever get - it's loving the things and the people and the calling he's given us the best way we possibly can, and hoping that we're loving his reflection in them.
Does that make sense?
It strikes me that I am possibly a heretic. And also possibly very sleep-deprived.
Anyway, think on that.
The end.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
p.s.
Two days at home is not enough.
I dislike moving.
It's a bizarre experience to feel completely awake and alert and unable to fall back asleep at 5 a.m. (because hey, your body still really thinks it's noon).
I dislike moving.
It's a bizarre experience to feel completely awake and alert and unable to fall back asleep at 5 a.m. (because hey, your body still really thinks it's noon).
Monday, July 02, 2007
i remember quite clearly - i hate packing!
Wow. That's my first thought on walking into my room, now strewn with opened boxes, clothing, and various piles of various man-made materials: to keep. storage. to get rid of. the maybe pile.
Today packing was even more dramatic, because after living for four months out of two suitcases, I'm overwhelmed at the sheer amount of stuff I own (my suitcases, by the way, were reclaimed with rejoicing at Huntsville airport at approximately 11 a.m. today). The closet holds a never-ending stream of boxes which spill their contents without apology all over my floor. In fact, I'm unpacking boxes from when we moved to Alabama before my ninth grade year of high school - and chucking most of their contents.
Yes, I've gotten ruthless. I don't need so many knicknacks. I don't need so many little papers to remember the past. I'm quite ready to move on, in fact. So I'm chucking them, without a second thought.
The thing I found that threw me the most? Apparently I kept a picture a friend drew for me way back in eighth grade. A small, approximately 3"x3" colored pencil drawing with an 18-word message written lightly on the back in all-caps. I kept, actually, quite a few artifacts from my eighth grade year. I suppose it was a memorable one.
Jenn, you'll laugh at this - I kept a piece of paper with our little ditty about Isaiah Paine and Nicole (to the tune of We Three Kings. . . remember?). I kept a little ceramic cow milk pitcher (which is, in fact, quite ugly). And I even have Cow-ee-pooh still.
There ought to be a moral to this story, I am aware. But there isn't, really, except that I'm slimming down my life a little. Probably not as much as I should, considering the small size of my dorm room this summer and my apartment next year, but slimming down nonetheless.
I've moved a total of five times in this calendar year. That's kind of a lot. No wonder I hate packing.
Last time I moved up to school it was horribly depressing, because I knew that all but one or two of my friends were gone, and no one was waiting for me. This year, even though I'm moving up in the summer, I hope it's better.
Yes, I've gotten more sleep, but no, it's not helped my fractured way of telling a story. I'm afraid that's going to take a lot more time to recover.
Today packing was even more dramatic, because after living for four months out of two suitcases, I'm overwhelmed at the sheer amount of stuff I own (my suitcases, by the way, were reclaimed with rejoicing at Huntsville airport at approximately 11 a.m. today). The closet holds a never-ending stream of boxes which spill their contents without apology all over my floor. In fact, I'm unpacking boxes from when we moved to Alabama before my ninth grade year of high school - and chucking most of their contents.
Yes, I've gotten ruthless. I don't need so many knicknacks. I don't need so many little papers to remember the past. I'm quite ready to move on, in fact. So I'm chucking them, without a second thought.
The thing I found that threw me the most? Apparently I kept a picture a friend drew for me way back in eighth grade. A small, approximately 3"x3" colored pencil drawing with an 18-word message written lightly on the back in all-caps. I kept, actually, quite a few artifacts from my eighth grade year. I suppose it was a memorable one.
Jenn, you'll laugh at this - I kept a piece of paper with our little ditty about Isaiah Paine and Nicole (to the tune of We Three Kings. . . remember?). I kept a little ceramic cow milk pitcher (which is, in fact, quite ugly). And I even have Cow-ee-pooh still.
There ought to be a moral to this story, I am aware. But there isn't, really, except that I'm slimming down my life a little. Probably not as much as I should, considering the small size of my dorm room this summer and my apartment next year, but slimming down nonetheless.
I've moved a total of five times in this calendar year. That's kind of a lot. No wonder I hate packing.
Last time I moved up to school it was horribly depressing, because I knew that all but one or two of my friends were gone, and no one was waiting for me. This year, even though I'm moving up in the summer, I hope it's better.
Yes, I've gotten more sleep, but no, it's not helped my fractured way of telling a story. I'm afraid that's going to take a lot more time to recover.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
"your eyes are like stars - you know, the kind that go supernova and kill baby planets"
The roads are too big.
That was my first thought on getting into our grey Toyota Tundra outside the Atlanta airport. The car is too big and the roads are too big and what happened to all of the cobblestones?
Yes, a little prick of fear as my mother pulled out onto highway traffic, eastbound on 283. There are a lot of other big cars rushing along with us.
And what, the roadsigns are all in English? And the menu at Arby's? What? Why so much, why so many?
"Vorrei" I start to say to the woman behind the cash register, then I swallow it. Because I'm in America now and I should order my food in English: "A jamocha shake, please." Please, not per favore.
I stood in the airport at the Lufthansa desk, wanting really badly to reclaim my gigantic purple suitcases (even though I hate dealing with the awkward weight of them) so that I could pass through customs and meet Mom. Unfortunately, I learned, my suitcases remained on German soil. Poor suitcases, sitting in a dirty terminal corner somewhere in Frankfurt. All of my possessions, everything I owned for a whole semester, everything I acquired for four months. Somehow I'm leaving this semester even more stripped down, slimmed out and streamlined than I started.
Today we had pork chops for lunch. Pork chops, baked potatoes (unlike the Italians my mother does believe in sour cream), mint tea, salad-with-real-salad-dressing, whoopie pies, fruit salad (I miss succo di ananas). I watched myself eat this feast from behind and a little bit above.
I'm not sure if this floating thing is related to jetlag-exhaustion or readjustment or both, but a little bit of me is standing off a ways in constant surprise at where I am (constantly surprised that I remember how to do this) wanting to use its hard-won Italian.
They say that we're having a drought. The south always seemed superabundant to me, too much, too green, too hot. If this is a drought then a normal summer would be a jungle, because still where I look there's green, there's vegetation over everything, the sky is monolithic blue. I gathered up my courage this morning, though, and drove to church. I'd forgotten completely that one stretch of road - even though we're in drought it's a verdant unbroken arch across the black road.
I remember. I like driving.
I know that when I left I missed the internet a lot. I missed the constant ready entertainment and communication it provided.
Yesterday, I declined to use the internet.
That was my first thought on getting into our grey Toyota Tundra outside the Atlanta airport. The car is too big and the roads are too big and what happened to all of the cobblestones?
Yes, a little prick of fear as my mother pulled out onto highway traffic, eastbound on 283. There are a lot of other big cars rushing along with us.
And what, the roadsigns are all in English? And the menu at Arby's? What? Why so much, why so many?
"Vorrei" I start to say to the woman behind the cash register, then I swallow it. Because I'm in America now and I should order my food in English: "A jamocha shake, please." Please, not per favore.
I stood in the airport at the Lufthansa desk, wanting really badly to reclaim my gigantic purple suitcases (even though I hate dealing with the awkward weight of them) so that I could pass through customs and meet Mom. Unfortunately, I learned, my suitcases remained on German soil. Poor suitcases, sitting in a dirty terminal corner somewhere in Frankfurt. All of my possessions, everything I owned for a whole semester, everything I acquired for four months. Somehow I'm leaving this semester even more stripped down, slimmed out and streamlined than I started.
Today we had pork chops for lunch. Pork chops, baked potatoes (unlike the Italians my mother does believe in sour cream), mint tea, salad-with-real-salad-dressing, whoopie pies, fruit salad (I miss succo di ananas). I watched myself eat this feast from behind and a little bit above.
I'm not sure if this floating thing is related to jetlag-exhaustion or readjustment or both, but a little bit of me is standing off a ways in constant surprise at where I am (constantly surprised that I remember how to do this) wanting to use its hard-won Italian.
They say that we're having a drought. The south always seemed superabundant to me, too much, too green, too hot. If this is a drought then a normal summer would be a jungle, because still where I look there's green, there's vegetation over everything, the sky is monolithic blue. I gathered up my courage this morning, though, and drove to church. I'd forgotten completely that one stretch of road - even though we're in drought it's a verdant unbroken arch across the black road.
I remember. I like driving.
I know that when I left I missed the internet a lot. I missed the constant ready entertainment and communication it provided.
Yesterday, I declined to use the internet.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Ciao, Santorini. . . hello Crete?
Remind me to tell you about lava rocks and little kids at a red sand beach.
But for now my internets time is counting down slowly from six minutes, so I thought that I would just say a quick hello. And recommend Santorini if you ever get vacation time in Greece. Athens kind of sucks though.
'Bye my loves, hopefully I will see you all soon (I'm getting kind of tired of travelling even though I've been having a pretty rocking time.)
Remind me to tell you about lava rocks and little kids at a red sand beach.
But for now my internets time is counting down slowly from six minutes, so I thought that I would just say a quick hello. And recommend Santorini if you ever get vacation time in Greece. Athens kind of sucks though.
'Bye my loves, hopefully I will see you all soon (I'm getting kind of tired of travelling even though I've been having a pretty rocking time.)
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
youth hostels -
who decided that only people between the ages of 18 and 35 have the right to stay cheaply when travelling internationaly?
Thursday, June 14, 2007
this is what i was thinking on wednesday, but now it's thursday and i have to wash my hair
Hey my loves,
I’m writing this, I confess, not in order to communicate, really, but in order to try and clear my own mind (and also, I find the act of writing, the feel of my keyboard, to be steadying). Life is. . . not confused. . . but very, very complicated. A welter of very intense, vivid moments crowd up together, pushing and shoving and vying for attention, to pile into one single hour.
And then the hours pile into a day. One more full day left, and then I’m gone. Really gone, because the program is moving. There won’t be any Orvieto semester in this physical place any more, even if I did manage to come back someday.
I cried in the sala today, the first time I’ve actually just wailed about leaving. I thought that I was going to be totally fine, not a tear in my eye, until last night at our farewell party (the first of two, but I’ll miss the second because I’ll be in Cinquaterra). After our pizza party, I was in a funk, and the emotion just kept building. Tonight will be our last family dinner together before the group starts splintering. When I found out that Heffay might not be able to be there because he was having guys’ night with Skills - well, that tore it. I bawled. Not have one last family dinner?
This morning, about 9 o’clock in the stone-sculpting garage, I couldn’t stop smiling. Something about the song “The Close of Autumn” was perfection, and the sun was shining and the sanding on my angel’s halo was almost over. The whole sculpting process is almost over. Whee!
I took a nap in the sala on the couches. Rain poured down outside, and so I couldn’t go to finish grinding down my angel’s arms to the correct level. Becca and Katie also fell asleep on the couches next to me, and Heffay worked on his poems for class. He’s writing the ekphrastic poem for my piece, and I am wildly curious. I’ve never read his work. What’s he going to say about this sculpture with which I am so dissatisfied?
I went to vespers at Buon Gesu. For the first time, I followed the entire service through the book without getting lost, and I understood almost all of it. That music. . . well, there isn’t anything it’s like. I love the way it smells there, too. If I could bottle up one thing to bring back to you all, it would be that sound and that smell and the soft cool feel of the space as you push open the wooden door.
The magnolia tree outside my window is blooming. Katie thinks it’s a wedding kind of flower. I think it’s a very solitary kind of flower. It just doesn’t look good in arrangements with others. Its grace is a little stiff, a little formal. It needs space to breathe. Maybe this is why I sympathize with magnolias? I don’t feel like a group flower either. = )
Katie and I planned our last cappuccino break together for tomorrow morning. I signed up for my critique-time. I had pistachio and tiramisu gelato for the last time. I walked the cliff one last time, near sunset.
If there weren’t some firsts to go along with all the lasts. . . actually, I’m not sure about that. The firsts, in combination with all the lasts, may in fact be what is making me feel so crazy. You know, I always laughed at that stereotype of the insane or dysfunctional artist. I was like, “Sure, I’m a little unbalanced at times, but essentially I’m OK. I’m functional. I’m punctual, I have a good work ethic. I can cook and drive and babysit and turn things in on time without constantly pulling all-nighters. I’m honest, and I can totally blend with society.” Well, now I know that I am, in fact, exactly that stereotype of the crazy artist. Whether it’s some gene that I inherited, or due to the commitments I’ve made to honesty or openness of vision or to making art of the visual or verbal kind. . . I haven’t the faintest. But that little monologue that’s constantly going on in your head? Well, sometimes it doesn’t exist. And when it does exist, it constantly contradicts itself.
I’m trying to take Dr. Skills’ advice to heart, though: give yourself space to feel what you’re feeling. And then feel the next thing that you’re feeling. Also, Dorothy L. Sayers: Don’t contradict or suppress what you’re feeling according to what you think you ought to be feeling.
Difficult. But also, in the end, I suppose keeping in touch with what’s actually going on in your insides is probably as important as keeping in touch with what’s going on in the outside world. Yes?
Love,
Kenzie
P.S. No more blog posts for the next couple weeks - I will be in the north of Italy, then in Greece, and then flying home to stay for a few days before I move up to college to begin work. So, extended hugs to last until the time of my next update.
I’m writing this, I confess, not in order to communicate, really, but in order to try and clear my own mind (and also, I find the act of writing, the feel of my keyboard, to be steadying). Life is. . . not confused. . . but very, very complicated. A welter of very intense, vivid moments crowd up together, pushing and shoving and vying for attention, to pile into one single hour.
And then the hours pile into a day. One more full day left, and then I’m gone. Really gone, because the program is moving. There won’t be any Orvieto semester in this physical place any more, even if I did manage to come back someday.
I cried in the sala today, the first time I’ve actually just wailed about leaving. I thought that I was going to be totally fine, not a tear in my eye, until last night at our farewell party (the first of two, but I’ll miss the second because I’ll be in Cinquaterra). After our pizza party, I was in a funk, and the emotion just kept building. Tonight will be our last family dinner together before the group starts splintering. When I found out that Heffay might not be able to be there because he was having guys’ night with Skills - well, that tore it. I bawled. Not have one last family dinner?
This morning, about 9 o’clock in the stone-sculpting garage, I couldn’t stop smiling. Something about the song “The Close of Autumn” was perfection, and the sun was shining and the sanding on my angel’s halo was almost over. The whole sculpting process is almost over. Whee!
I took a nap in the sala on the couches. Rain poured down outside, and so I couldn’t go to finish grinding down my angel’s arms to the correct level. Becca and Katie also fell asleep on the couches next to me, and Heffay worked on his poems for class. He’s writing the ekphrastic poem for my piece, and I am wildly curious. I’ve never read his work. What’s he going to say about this sculpture with which I am so dissatisfied?
I went to vespers at Buon Gesu. For the first time, I followed the entire service through the book without getting lost, and I understood almost all of it. That music. . . well, there isn’t anything it’s like. I love the way it smells there, too. If I could bottle up one thing to bring back to you all, it would be that sound and that smell and the soft cool feel of the space as you push open the wooden door.
The magnolia tree outside my window is blooming. Katie thinks it’s a wedding kind of flower. I think it’s a very solitary kind of flower. It just doesn’t look good in arrangements with others. Its grace is a little stiff, a little formal. It needs space to breathe. Maybe this is why I sympathize with magnolias? I don’t feel like a group flower either. = )
Katie and I planned our last cappuccino break together for tomorrow morning. I signed up for my critique-time. I had pistachio and tiramisu gelato for the last time. I walked the cliff one last time, near sunset.
If there weren’t some firsts to go along with all the lasts. . . actually, I’m not sure about that. The firsts, in combination with all the lasts, may in fact be what is making me feel so crazy. You know, I always laughed at that stereotype of the insane or dysfunctional artist. I was like, “Sure, I’m a little unbalanced at times, but essentially I’m OK. I’m functional. I’m punctual, I have a good work ethic. I can cook and drive and babysit and turn things in on time without constantly pulling all-nighters. I’m honest, and I can totally blend with society.” Well, now I know that I am, in fact, exactly that stereotype of the crazy artist. Whether it’s some gene that I inherited, or due to the commitments I’ve made to honesty or openness of vision or to making art of the visual or verbal kind. . . I haven’t the faintest. But that little monologue that’s constantly going on in your head? Well, sometimes it doesn’t exist. And when it does exist, it constantly contradicts itself.
I’m trying to take Dr. Skills’ advice to heart, though: give yourself space to feel what you’re feeling. And then feel the next thing that you’re feeling. Also, Dorothy L. Sayers: Don’t contradict or suppress what you’re feeling according to what you think you ought to be feeling.
Difficult. But also, in the end, I suppose keeping in touch with what’s actually going on in your insides is probably as important as keeping in touch with what’s going on in the outside world. Yes?
Love,
Kenzie
P.S. No more blog posts for the next couple weeks - I will be in the north of Italy, then in Greece, and then flying home to stay for a few days before I move up to college to begin work. So, extended hugs to last until the time of my next update.
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