No More Sleep

What am I doing with my life?  No more sleep, that’s what.  Time is dwindling down to the final weeks.  They’re not really going to deport me are they?  What if I accidentally miss my flight for the next year or so?  An honest mistake?

I have no idea how I am going to transfer myself back to sunny California.  I like the cold.  I want to need to wear a scarf, not because it looks nice with my flip flops, because I need it.  Or I’ll die.  What about walking?  I hate it.  I’ll never do it again.  I need it.  What about the library?  I won’t sit in Marshburn.  Rad Cam’s where its at.  Union debate? Where else will I be half interested/half ready for a nap?  Archery?  Shameless flirting is only commendable in this context.  Fencing?  I want to quit.  It’s hot.  It’s hard.  It’s so classic.  It’s perfect.  Bragging rights.  Jesus with Brits?  Jesus exponentially classy and whimsical.  I can’t call Americans Americans anymore.  They’re just people.  Goodbye a million different specialty stores instead of one stop shop.  Goodbye most glorious rainbows over sprinkling rain with late afternoon sun over palaces.  Goodbye need for public transportation.  Goodbye pubs and alcohol.

It’s official–to increase my time left in a conscious state, I am giving up sleep.  Insomniac in Oxford.

Raindrops on Kittens and Wiskers on Roses

Some of my favorite things about England:

1. I’m going to jump right into the stereotype here and go with the men. The accents aren’t what do it, though sometimes I imagine them all wearing 18th century get-ups and Mr. Darcy somewhere amidst the crowd. Because I’m an American girl and that’s my prerogative.

2. The cobblestone.  Actually, it’s not fun at all to walk on. As a matter of fact, every time I’m on it I seem to be in some narrow alley where I’m not sure if or not I’m going the right direction. I take it back, the idea of cobblestone is nice and seems aesthetically pleasing and fulfills what movies or books tell me but actually it’s a pain.

3. Tiny things. Everything’s so much more compact. I notice it most in the cars. I haven’t seen a pickup truck in months. Buses don’t count though. They’re beasts who aim to kill.

4. Fully grown ginger men. We don’t have these in the U.S. Do they all go into hiding after they reach the age of twelve? They must migrate.

5. Children. Left alone, that’s a creepy statement. But really, when miniature sophisticated people are walking around town, I’m amazed. They don’t even realize how important they are with their fancy voices.

6. History. Buildings that are older than my country.

7. Ridiculous tradition. Guy afraid to ask me how old I am because it’s “rude to ask a lady her age”. All the silverware. Robes. Bowler hats.

8. New vocabulary. Swatting up. Squash. Cheers. Fresher. Uni. Kit. It’s all sixes and sevens.

9. Pounds. I lose them almost everyday.

10. Baskets on bicycles. Wicker ones. My handlebars are jealous.

11. Kebab. There’s nothing more reassuring about food sanitation than ordering out of the back of a stranger’s van.

12. Real magic. It’s just as whimsical as I thought and think. I see things I was expecting, anticipating and even things surprising, unconsidered.

13. Punctuality. Walking has never done me this much good.

Technically, this is amended to favorite things about England, today. Because there’s more to come. When the dog bites or bee stings.

Loving and Never Leaving

I swore to myself I’d spend more time recounting my adventures abroad.  But, that doesn’t really mean anything because I swear to myself about a lot of things that I tend not to follow through with.   Well, I’m going to commit to this one post at least, but don’t get too excited about frequent updates.  I’ll try to make this one monumental to satisfy temporary desires (because I know you’re dying to hear more…).

Just got back from a travel week (more like travel 5 days, close enough) to see the Danish and the Swedes.  Guys in Denmark are better looking, just so you know (I committed myself to marry several of them–they don’t know yet).  Copenhagen in Denmark for 4 days was glorious, apart from the fact that we couldn’t get in to Tivoli, the famous Danish theme park, because it was closed, but such is life.  We did a lot of walking around, a lot of window shopping–I feel like we passed through the red light district a few too many times to get to our destinations.  Not really my ideal window shopping experience as I lack the need for dominatrix get-ups and giant golden penis statues (although, that might add to the living room feng shui).  We went to the Carlsberg beer factory, which was interesting coming from the opposite of beer connoisseur that is me.  Walked down to Nyhavn a couple times which is the harbor area with quaint little flats of all different colors smashed together in a housey-lined street smorgasbord with a canal running through the middle.  Saw the little mermaid statue that I remember reading about in the not-so-infamous-but-in-my-mind-they-are Christy Miller Christian book series for insecure 13 year old sheltered teenage girls (I feel like I fulfilled some sort of childhood dream in doing this).  We actually saw the statue our first day and since I had gone to bed at 1am and woke up at 2:30am to hop on a bus to get to the airport, I ended up finding a bench by the statue, spreading myself out and did like the homeless do and slept.  I actually discovered I could cope with having random public property as beds throughout this trip–even restaurant benches.  I was also hungry a lot–now that I think about it, I guess I reverted back a lot to of the animalistic needs (eat, sleep, repeat) on this trip.

On the first night for dinner in Copenhagen, we ate at a random pub that was probably a little too local.  A lot of older Danish men who were saying God knows what to me and my fellow female travelers.  I ate something which may or may not have been schnitzel, my memory is failing me.  Went back to the hostel and watched Jackass of all shows because we were beat.  The five of us traveling together went to bed, on a Friday night, long before our other 10 or so roommates…we’re such party animals!  Next day hung out in some parks, went to the graves of Hans Christian Anderson and Sir Soren Kierkegaard.  Begged my travel buddies to rent bikes, but no one was really keen on that idea (lame).  Went to an internet cafe that was actually a place for gamers–good to know that my brothers aren’t the only ones with World of Warcraft obsessions (it extends across the world! I have so much hope in humanity!).  Went out to a bar one night where the live music was (no exaggerating) literally a 7-foot, 350+ pound Danish woman who sang renditions of Alanis Morissette songs (isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?)–a memory that will stick with me for a long time.  Did lots of other things, but lets move on to Sweden.

Stockholm=ridiculously cold.  It wasn’t until we left that we found out it is part of the Arctic freakin’ Circle!  Spent a lot of time warming up in tourist shops.  Probably saw more postcards, magnets, pens, and key chains than I did Stockholm.  We were there for our final day of travel and let me tell you, though we had an impossible time finding an open hostel, dinner, and warmth, it was absolutely beautiful.  It was one of the first European cities that I’ve been in that didn’t feel so cramped and the air was so crisp, fresh, and, though I whined about how frigid it was, relieving.  On the first night, after finally finding a hostel that stays open later than 6pm, we searched for a place to eat.  Having not eating for 9 hours, I was noticeably ravenous.  Went to a tapas bar, which probably wasn’t the best idea for someone who could’ve eaten a Swedish moose by herself.  Ordered the mini squid–got three 1.5 inch baby octopi who were looking at me, judging  (what goes through my head when I’m making decisions?–”Okay, Alanna, lets order the most impractical thing right now”).  Took me a minute before I just shoved one in…and it was delicious.  Forced my travel mates to let me have all 5 pieces of free bread that came with the meal to hold me over.

Finished off Sweden and the trip with a look at the changing of the guard (a prolonged look at one guard in particular…) at the royal palace and a tour of the treasury and apartments.  Spent our few last minutes in the tourist shops, because we hadn’t done that enough already.  Then we hoped on our RyanAir bus to the airport in the middle of nowhere.  Passed the first ever IKEA on the way as we drove through the sunset across the city skyline.  Made the plane, got my own row, read a little D.H. Lawrence and landed in the most isolated airport in London: Stansted.  Left from there at around 1am and got home to Oxford around 4am. Crashed.  Awoke to the sound of construction at 9am.  Life living between the laundromat and the Chinese food restaurant on Botley…

Moral of the story: they can’t make me leave Europe. Sorry Uncle Sam but Union Jack needs me.

The Olsen Twins Made Me Do It

For the first time in my life, I feel like you can ask me where I am and what I’m doing and I can I can impress you.  You can thank Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen.

I just got back from braving the London underground system, tackling the things lost in translation on the streets of Paris, testing my boyancy in the salty waters of the Mediterranean in the French Riveria (and also seeing a lot of bare breasts), really wishing I had pepper spray or a knife in a late-nate alley in Genoa, sweating more than I ever have while treking through Rome to things I’ve only studied, read, or dreamed about, felt the refreshing wind as I rode a bike through religious establishments from the minds of geniuses and shopping scenes straight out of a medeval movie set in Florence, soaking in the unique profoundness that makes up the back alley canal archways and flirtatious personalities of Italian gondaliers in Venice, and losing my backpack on the final stetch somewhere between the Milan-Linate airport and London-Heathrow.

I am 20 years old and I am doing things I wasn’t sure if I ever would.  I am 20 years old, 50,000 dollars in college debt (and increasing), and I am never going to be able to afford any luxury ever again as long as I live. I am 20 years old, I have visited 3 European countries with 4 more to come.  I am 20 years old and using every cliche I can think of to describe the most glorious time of my life.  I am 20 years old and this is NOT even as good as it’s gonna get.  I am 20 years old and I sound like a pretentious traveller who won’t shut up about how awesome he or she is (she, just so you know).  Most importantly, I am 20 years old and they let me order alcohol–no questions asked.

Oh, back to the Olsens.  Winning London? Yes, please.  I saw it, wanted it, got it.  Amanda Bynes deserves a thank you as well.  What a Girl Wants? DONE.  Pretty much everything I know about London came from movies about girls who were majically swept off their feet by some random British guy who happened to be riding by on his Vespa when it was a) raining and she HAD to flag them down for a ride or b) the guy could spot this alluring American girl who needed directions for which he was the perfect candidate.  I live in Oxford, which isn’t the same as London but way better.  Because it’s sexy AND scholarly–and there’s no alliteration better than that.

I can’t help but have the biggest, gayest, toothiest grin as I’m writing this.  I have no words to write. I can’t even begin to say how great this is. So, here goes: I’m in freaking Oxford, bitches! *

*I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this in previous posts, but I think that adding “bitches!” to the end of any sentence makes it at least 3 and a half times cooler, if not inappropriate, unoriginal, and juvenile.

Future’s Garbage

I am very restless. I can feel my skin crawling, my stomach churning, and my legs squirming. I’m raring to go. I can’t concentrate on the present, I’m forgetful of the past, all I can think of is tomorrow. Later, after, soon, another time, not now, in a few weeks, next month, in a second, all I can do is think of things not being right now.  Stop.

Why not now? My eagerness gets me no place. It’s just a frame of mind, not an action.  I constantly think of later, what about now? What if now is the only opportunity? I can’t keep thinking I can make up for missed out things that I excused myself from as if I would do it later. I am only kidding myself. “No, not now” means, “No, not ever” at LEAST 99.9% of the time. Unless there is a really good reason, I’ve probably just let my realist, overbearingly pessimistic mindset talk myself out of things, which I simply blame on lack of time or unqualified attitude and throw into the future as if it’s a possibility.

I use the future as a trash can for ideas, it’s my mind dump. “I could or should do this or that” will most likely be thrown into the abysmal time vortex of what is my future.  It’s really just a term, a concept, that I whip out whenever I don’t want to do something or don’t want to put the effort into doing it.  “I’ll do that later” is just a phrase–I’ve manipulated my future into a thing through which I throw away ideas that I’m too lazy to pursue.

Not now is not good enough. I can’t use the future as an excuse, there’s so much more potential for it.  As of right now, my future’s only working as a crutch. It’s quite the predicament.  But I’ll sort this problem out…tomorrow.

Sightings as Told by the Heartless

So, I’m not usually one to post more than one time in a day, that’s just absurd, but I decided I needed to have a rebuttal in lieu of my previous nonsensical emo post.

Some funny things I saw today:

1. A midget on a scooter–NOTE: The politically correct “little person” should not be riding a scooter. For that matter, anyone over the age of 12. Scooters are for children.  If you don’t want to be confused with a child, you probably shouldn’t be riding one. I’m just saying.

2. An albino crocodile–NOTE: Who knew that that albinism extended into the reptile family? Fact of the day!

3.  A man carrying an extraordinarily large, awkwardly-shaped box–NOTE: Nothing too revolutionary, he just looked troubled. And no, I didn’t help him.

Making fun of others at their expense. There, I am once again heartless–back to my normal self.

An Anti-Pretentious Pretentor?

Well, my hatred for melodrama, overreacting, and emotional instability is a solid and very firmly established principle. Or so I tell myself. As much as I hate to admit that I fall into some sort of stereotype, it is really freaking hard to not be categorized as “woman who sometimes lets emotions get the best of her”–its inevitable, I suppose. Which is a ridiculously inexcusable paradoxical statement. I can help it, but really I can’t from time-to-time. Hormones are useless to me.

I was thinking about pretentiousness today. I was thinking about how much I hate people who possess this quality. I was also thinking about how pretentious I am for hating people who are pretentious. Then goes the vicious circle.

I always associate pretension with a quality someone who is really sure about themselves possesses but is, in fact, clueless, condescending, contradictory, and close-minded (and yes, I DID work hard on that intentional alliteration).

I don’t even really know the point I’m trying to get across other than: I want to be introspective but not emo and I want to be cautious but not judgmental. I’m finding a hard time accepting a balance between being expressive and being that annoying girl at summer camp who won’t shut up about every minuscule detail of her life. Also, I’m having a hard time figuring out when or if I can or should judge people.

Really, this was all an excuse to put up a poem I wrote. I hate that sentence, in and of itself it sounds pretentious. Oh, I write poetry, blah, blah, blah. Actually, this is the only poem I’ve ever written and I really like it so that equals 100% success rate and I’m not sure if it really has any meaning anymore to me but I just like it. That’s all.

Also, I used various forms of the word pretentious way too many times for one post.

I Wait

Calm, serene, patient, somber, naïve,

I wait.

Quietly contemplating my next move to be made on timely beat,

Dancing the perfect pirouettes in tune with the rhythm, I seek,

Only to impress your glancing eye.

Only to be fed a temporary means, a sedating lie.

With innocent eyes, glassy, wide and raised to your line,

I crave with childish fervor to be the singular thought on your mind.

Restless, worried, intent, anxious, stirred,

I wait.

With determined vigor I plan and plot your affection,

To make sure the priorities from you all point in my direction.

Tapping my toes at an unnerving exponential rate,

Wringing my fingers with thoughts diverted to avoid the hate,

Of what you did, what you are doing, the ignorance to come;

Thoughts overtake my heart, my common sense, and with your bribes, I am done.

Withdrawn, anguished, careless, angry, exhausted,

I wait.

No more exhortation left in airless lungs.

Void of sensation, salivation no longer haunts my tongue.

Daring steps towards distraction become my focal purpose.

Brave façade and shielded heart, I rise up effortless.

The line you draw which I cannot surpass,

No more wasted attention will I let pass.

Naïve I may still be,

For I wait.

Intent clear to see,

For I wait.

Anger will not flee,

For I wait.

And so I will always beg with inaudible plea,

I will always wait.

Consistent Inconsistency

Well, as of late I haven’t written anything due to my important college life full of professional business-type structure, tests, and papers full of researched materials. I don’t have time for mindless dwellings and arbitrary drownings of my selfish lifestyle. I’m in college. Pfft. Is that a legitimate excuse for being lazy? Nope? Ok, I admit it: I’m a cotton-headed ninny muggins.

So, for serious, I’ve been thinking about this problem that I have and how to articulate it. Here’s what I have: I’m a consistent inconsistent-er. Also, I’m completely oxymoronic–which, coincidentally, is not a word but it sounds good so I’m gonna keep it. Here’s the DL (official urban dictionary definition of the term “DL”: Down low. Like, psst don’t tell anyone!) anywho, yeah: I am constantly in a transition phase. For as long as I can remember I’ve consistently moved around and changed…but almost so much that it’s in a routine type of way. I am someone who is prone to routine but then again I seem to really like distancing myself and creating adventure and the best way to do that is to go somewhere new or to change what I’m doing.  I’ve realized that I’ve grown accustomed to being able to go back and forth and never sitting still and having to learn to deal with one place so I usually ignore conflict instead of try to resolve it because I figure I can just leave. Either that or I never allow myself to be completely comfortable because I assume I’ll be moving on shortly.

I’m terrified that one day I’ll shut down completely and become totally desensitized toward people, comfort, and the ability to make someplace my home. As much as I want adventure and travel and change, I don’t want to never become closely involved with one place. I don’t want to spread myself thin. It worries me. But one thing I do know for sure: I haven’t become this person yet. In the midst of all this change I found a home, a comfort, a place to be sensitized toward people. And, as absolutely ridiculously cliche and melodramatic (and how I love melodrama) it sounds, I’ve left a piece of my heart there.

Also, I’m pretty sure this blog is totally incoherent. But have pity, my heart has a hole, remember?

Melodramtic Humility

Something really bothers me of which I’m unsure if it should. That was a nonsensical yoda sentence, let me rephrase: I’m not sure if I should really be bothered by what is currently bothering me. But, nonetheless, I am perturbed. I realized approximately 2 weeks ago that typical Protestant worship can make me uneasy. This is an incredibly strange statement seeing as I’ve grown up in the church and should be completely accustomed to worship “standards”–but sometimes I’m not.

One of the things I’ve noticed about myself in regards to worship is how obstinate I can be. Like, for example, if I am told to do something (i.e. clap hands, raise hands, hold hands, shake hands, pray out loud all at once, spin in circles, etc.) I will purposely NOT do it. My reasoning is that if I’m doing what I’m told to do then I’m not really doing anything out of love or admiration but because I don’t want to look stupid in the midst of everyone else doing it. So, therefore, I just don’t do it.

Worship Leader: “Okay, guys, I just want you to listen to the words you’re saying and raise up your hands, singing as loudly as you can for the joy of our Lord Jesus Christ!”

Me: “….”

Worship Leader: “Now, turn to your neighbor and tell them how much they’re loved!!”

Me: “….”

Worship Leader: “Now let the Holy Spirit lead you as He wills!”

Me: “….”

This is just one theoretical example of how I might react to “worship orders”.

Anyway, I’ve always known that I’m uncomfortable with certain worship cues but it wasn’t until the other day that I realized how oxymoronic typical Protestant worship can be. I was at a place, which shall remain unnamed, where I thought to myself, “Wow, this ambiance is great–everyone seems extremely welcoming and I can’t wait to start singing some good Jesus stuff.” Well, the music started and things seemed to be going good when all the sudden, BAM, extreme melodrama. You know what I’m talking about. It’s that out-of-the-blue-transitioning-between-songs-talk. But not just words to explain the song, or notes of praise to God, or even just encouragement to those around…it was a demand. I don’t want to sound blasphemous in anyway but the words were as follows (in loud and overly dramatic voice), “If you really understand what Jesus did for you on the cross then you should show your devotion to Him: kneel on the ground before Him right now! Lay your knees on the floor with outstretched arms!!” My first thoughts to myself were: “Wow, this is a Catch-22, if I don’t do it I’ll look like I don’t love God and therefore look like a posing idiot and if I do do it then I will look like a flaming retard poser because I’m just doing it because I was just freaking TOLD to do it!” Then, I reasoned with myself…of course I don’t understand what Jesus did for me on the cross in its entirety and I don’t think I ever will–problem solved.

Anywho, apart from this nonsensical babble, my overall thoughts: If we are worshiping out of humility, why is it this grand production, complete with loud, boisterous talking between songs that I mostly think leaders do because they don’t know how to transition and because they like the sound of their own voices in the mic? Does God expect our humble thankfulness through song to be portrayed in such an overemphasized manner? Also, I always associate worship with singing but isn’t there so much more?

Sometimes I think the liturgical way makes so much more sense. Doing things almost robotic-like would not avert our attention from God and towards ourselves. But then again, that’s out of the question because if things weren’t mixed up and involving me, I’d probably be bored. And we all know that spirituality is at it’s best when it’s at the pinnacle of dramatic awakening. Spirituality IS, after all, completely about being entertained.

A new phase of restlessness

So, in honor of my newfound optimism, I’ve decided to look on the brighter side of things. I’m making a new start with a new blog at a new website with a new collegiate sense of humor (which probably just means less funny and more tainted by dry and witless academia). Pfft, so we’ll see how this goes. –Yeah, I’ve got nothing blatantly positive to say. I really like the forest? Toy Story 2 was okay?

Hmm…I think I’ve just come to an epiphany: It’s really hard to write a blog with any substance that isn’t completely shoot-myself-in-the-face-because-you’re-droning-on-about-life-situations-that-I-have-no-interest-in worthy without making a complaint or objection about the norms. So, in order that I stay true to my optimism pact I will only make descriptive claims not complaints.

By the way, this is just an intro, a little glimpse into what is to come through the visionary genius of what is Alanna. I am would-be if I could-be writer who hates writing if given a deadline and a specific topic (which is essentially the definition found within every college syllabus…crap) and who considers writing meaningless gibberish on the interweb (that maybe 4 people will read) as a means to exercise my quote unquote “talent” or the thing that I suck at less than other things. Oh right, my optimism goal–uh, the smell of Purell is satisfying?

In conclusion, to sum things up, to draw things to a close, in summarization (My pet peeve: cliche endings in written work!!) TO WRAP THIS BITCH UP (better, but lacks the element of professionalism), I’m gunna make descriptive claims about life and try as little as possible to drone on about things that no one likes to read like how I got a new kitten or how my roommate drank my soy milk. So, convincing selling point, read me!