The Crumpled Sticky Note of Worries

(Pardon the grammar errors and such. It's quite late, and I'm quite tired [of school...])

There are moments in life that, when I look back upon them, have me wishing for the ability to travel through time. Moments that make me crave the ability, no, the opportunity to go back and just give my darling younger self a hug.

It is as if I'm watching her in a movie, except it's the film screen behind my closed eyes. I look back and see how I anguished over something that worked out beautifully, although I had no way of knowing it would at the time.

I then experience this strange feeling that I owe it to myself to go back in time and comfort that poor girl -- give her hugs and play with her hair and assure her that things will turn out fine... only time and honesty are ever needed.

Perhaps I will start writing letters to my future self. Although it's reversed and basically unrelated, I do hope it will help throw comfort through time. One) write a testament of how things have worked out in the past, two) save it for one of my future anguished moments, three) see if the reminder in the beauty of things working out helps.

Time is so strange. 

Wait.... What?

I keep ending up at this "new post" page without a clue of what to write about. It's weird because I have had plenty of ideas. However, they all seem to leave me stranded right when I need them. I'm serious -- I imagine myself in my mind of a room looking around confused because, all of a sudden, it's empty and I'm quite alone. My stomach eats itself for a second when I imagine doing this on an essay test. Ew ew ew essay tests... My worst nightmare. Why am I talking about this? I have one coming up. In a long time though. I can't help but feel like these past one hundred-and-eleven words pretty accurately allude to how I've been feeling this past week or so: frazzled, jumbled, slightly dazed. I pity the persons who have to converse with me these days.

Me being frazzled in the library.

Portrait Project Phase I

You think you know them. And you do. Or, at least, you feel as if you're grasping an idea of them. I returned here this January for another new semester but under completely different terms than the last time I came here for a new semester. I had friends this time, familiars -- what a vastly huge difference. And now, I am doing a photography project to mark my idea of the people I've come to know. I've attempted to capture how I view them at this moment. It might change as things do, but at least I'll have these ideas, images, moments recorded. Here is the first round...

Trenton

Murphy

Mary

Sadie

Luke

We're Only Here to Find the (HAPPY) That Lingers After

This past semester I've taken to doing things that people happen to think have a high risk of failure. It really doesn't matter whether there is actually a high risk, or less of a risk than society thinks, or more of a risk than I think. This is about people and their perceptions and how it affects their actions.

I think it scares people when someone beats the odds -- it holds them accountable. When someone beats the odds, it makes others feel guilty (if that's the right word) for not taking chances themselves. It completely derails statistics and diminishes our comfort in them.

Why are we so afraid of failure? I was afraid of failure. Am I still afraid of failure? Of course I am. But it's different now, I suppose. Well. I know that if I'd listened to statistics and "people" and my knees that shook in the face of these high risks of failure, I wouldn't have the rewarding life I love thus far. I wouldn't have this lovely greek-less, writing major, texting filled, burnt orange etc etc life.

Nelson's Way

"There is nothing like returning to a place unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered."

~Nelson Mandela

Well. True dat, homes.

Only been home for 12 hours and here are the ways I've noticed in which I've altered.

1. I eat twice as much.

2. I swear twice as much.

3. I can run on half as much sleep.

4. (This one makes no sense) I offer people random food items of mine that they would never want. I was drinking from a plastic cup of water and asked my friend mid-sentence if she wanted some. I was eating a Cliff bar and mid-bite asked my friend she wanted a bite. What is this? 

5. My appreciation for good, delicious food has sky-rocketed.

6. My hair is infinitely more messy.

More to come...

Everybody's Feeling Warm and Bright

I have trouble equating pain and happiness. They aren't two extremes on the same scale. A human being is not a scale to begin with. Oh, God, no. Pain and Happiness -- and anger and giddiness and sadness and all the other things we go through for that matter -- equate only as different states of consciousness. They encompass you, bleeding into your thoughts and your heart. What's funny about Pain and Happiness is the difference in how conscious you are of the other's existence while in one of the two states. When you are happy and life is swell, there is always some part of you (or maybe this is just me) worrying about a change into sadness or another negative emotion. Even if it's small, there is a piece of my consciousness refusing to take it for granted, because it is so worried for the moment when another emotion becomes more prominent. In Happiness, we can still remember so clearly Pain. However, Pain is often associated with hopelessness. I mean, hopelessness is never founded. I swear to you, things will always get better. And yet, when we are suffering, we forget the warmth that is Happiness. It can be unimaginable. I hope that someone in pain reads this and takes my word for it: Happiness, like it always does, will come around. We are beings of adjustment and peace, so things will naturally fall together or apart until you reach peace again.

Look With Your Eyes Open

When it comes to my post titles, I choose the song lyric in which its correlation to the post content is clear to me and not at all to the reader. I have a purpose behind this madness, albeit a rather selfish and strange one. Paradoxical as it is, it's to maintain a little bit of "personal" in my here posts. As in, you can have my thoughts and discoveries, but a small part of it -- how that piece of song relates to that thought or discovery in posts-- is still completely mine. This is dumb. It's a blog. It's why I created said blog. Duh, the point is to launch my thoughts and discoveries into the world. It's my choice. But still. In the ways of my eloquent and impressive lexicon, "IDK. Whate'er."

All that hullaballoo being said, let's get down to business. Post title: "Look With Your Eyes Open." Despite all that I just rambled upon, this one actually has a meaning for you to understand. Allow me to explain. Last Wednesday was a beautiful day, and I was on a beautiful walk to class... Not that I noticed. Why? Because I am always locked up in the theater of my mind's eye. As some of you know, I am an extremely visual person, but only in the sense that I see what my mind is thinking, and not so much what my eyes are seeing. What a tragedy! (Not to mention a safety hazard.) I am surrounded by nature's finest and I don't even notice. Even as I was walking and thinking this, I had my head down watching my mind's eye's images of what was surrounding me as I was being surrounded by it. It was bizarre and I felt like a crazy person as I constantly had to remind myself to look up at the beautiful around me.

Your surroundings are as beautiful as you notice. Look up and breathe it in; let it run through your system and make you More.

Sometimes, When Sailors Are Sailing

"Children never forgive injustice. They forgive heaps of things grown-up people mind; but that sin is the unpardonable sin."
-Virginia Woolf

I don't know what to think

To Start Our Own Peculiar Ways

It's so strange to me how different we perceive something when we're comparing it to something else versus when we're just perceiving it standing alone without any comparison. Perhaps this is just me, but whenever I compare something, it loses a lot of its worth because I start to see only what it's lacking or, on a more positive side, only how much better it is than something else. If I look at something without comparing it at all, even what was better that the other thing seems to have so much more good. That doesn't make any sense. Let me explain it in a different way: pretend object A gets 50 cool points and object B gets 40. Looking at this way, object A really only gets 10 cool points and object B gets 0. However, if I were to look only at object A, it would get 50 and object B would get 40. I, for whatever reason, seem to appreciate things more when they stand alone.

More than that, if I'm comparing two things I only notice the qualities that they both have and then compare them. How unfair is that to the thing that has an amazing ability that doesn't even get noticed just because there's nothing to compare it to?

Where am I even going with this? I don't know. I guess it just goes back to the whole College thing. A few weeks ago, I realized that as I was meeting these new, fabulous people, all I was doing was comparing them to each other, to my friends from home, to the perfect person. No matter, I've learned my lesson and, in that, have learned another cheesy life lesson. Swell.

Dance Anthem of the 80's

It is inevitable that you will change in college. Your life changes, drastically might I add, and we are what our lives make of us. What we learn and come to know depends on what our lives have taught us and shown us through different people and situations and locations and time periods and so many more life-altering factors. What we know and how we know to act determines who and how we are. For example, someone knows and acts out Syrian culture because they are familiar with Syria. So, back to college. Different situations, new situations, different information, new information, different people, new people.... different us. We are altered because our lives are altered.

Don't Fix My Smile, Life Is Long Enough

Lo and behold, Trent Walker is an amazing writer. Despite knowing him for quite some time, he managed to keep this fact hidden from me. However, he sent me something that he wrote, and I just have to post it here. Read it as an introduction or first chapter in a book.

It's like an itch on the bottom of your foot that you can't scratch because your tennis shoe won't allow it. Your in a public place so all you can do is wiggle your foot around allowing the sole to gently rub against your sock causing a slight abrasion to your skin, soothing the itch to a minimal level of satisfaction. Five minutes later, it's back. All you want to do is sit down, in the middle of wherever you are, rip off your shoe and scratch. Scratch until the itch is gone, then put the shoe back on and happily go about your business. But this would cause people to stare, wondering why you're sitting on the floor without shoes on, touching your feet. This is a problem. When does it itch so badly that you begin to not care? I suppose its up to each individual's personality, self esteem or social concerns. Well, what if that itch were something less simple and the people watching were more important? The people watching could be your family, friends or anyone whose view was significant to you. Say, for instance, that itch was one of adventure, boredom, philosophy or passion. At what point does someone say, "Screw it, it itches too much." I'll tell you, that point changes throughout our lives. There is a critical period for freedom, for adventure. Just like the critical period for learning. We all know what that is. They say your mind is a sponge when you are a toddler and its the best time to learn how to speak, read, or write. Well, I suggest that there is a point of no return for our sense of freedom. I'll give it a number just for throwing around's sake. We will call it 18. That's a good number. If you don't take your shoe off and itch your damn foot before you are 18 then your chances of ever itching your foot exponentially decrease from that point onward. Now, I will admit, that is a bold claim based loosely on hardly any facts at all, but hey, how old are you? If you are young enough to wait around for facts then by all means, do so. Just keep wiggling your foot around if you have the time. Not all of us have that luxury. There's a deadline for adventure. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not telling you to snort the next line or you're dead. Don't let this little theory affect your drug usage. That's not my goal here. My goal is to tell you my story. My story of adventure is, I hope, an inspiring one. This is an experiment and you are a patient. In a few years, the results will be published. The Times will read something like "Critical Period for Adventure Theory Proven, Author a Genius!" or "Crack Pot Theorist Scams America into Buying Book and Running Off." Either way, you are going to have an adventure. Get ready. Have you ever seen the bored loser spin a globe, stop it with his finger, and go on vacation to wherever it landed? Screw that. What if his finger landed somewhere boring? No. That is dumb. Where do you want to go. I'll tell you where I wanted to go.

Do the Panic

I was going through my messages to Ellee and found this one. It made me smile, so I thought I'd post it. It was written in the last month or so of school.

------------------------

Sweet Ellee, Sweet Ellee!

How I love you so much. 

Oh Ellee, Sweet Ellee. Gosh, I'm growing up. I spent so much time running, hurling forward and now it's that time where I pause and step back. Turn around, take a glance, what will I miss? Slowly my steps are faltering, I'm second guessing my pace. Maybe I should sit back and enjoy this a little more.

It's funny how God has people work in my life. Just as you helped me adjust to being here, in this red-coated, Mustang-loving, strange little nook, you're helping me leave it, move on and enter a whole new stage of being.

I can't decide who I want to be in college, if I had to decide now. I think a little more of me, give or take a few things. I'll take myself less seriously, but trust my gut more. I want to give out love the way an unhygienic 4-year-old passes out germs. I want to cook more, judge less and be able to sing. I know, I know, it's not for me to know or decide. But I can't help but wonder, who will Lana be in a year?

Gah here I am again. These questions, no answers. All that I know is that every decision I make now affects Lana in a year. So, that makes me wonder, what are my decisions like now? Maybe I shouldn't've talked so angrily to my mom, to Holly, to the lady at Kroger... But I'm happy for my studying, my loving, my helping. Gosh, I've got a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Good grief, who knows what's going on, I'M SUCH A PERMANENT MESS.

Love,

Lana

'Cause We're Moving On and We Can't Slow Down

Dear Memorial,

I leave you with this- my senior speech:

In my car, I have a towel, a few broken CDs, a neon ski jacket, some seashells, too many discarded Starbucks cups, and two or three plates and spoons. To say the least, I am a messy person. While I admit that this is true, I must also elaborate on another side of me entirely- a side obsessed with organizing, categorizing and labeling. I don't mean literally; 

I don't have a label gun stashed away or anything, it's more like categorizing or labeling big things, like groups of people or individuals... mostly, trying to categorize myself. We all deal with this in high school, the "who am I"s and all that. The funny thing is, while we all (eventually) find that no one fits into one category and that we are all unique and special, etc., etc., I figured out something even more ridiculous and peculiar. I, in fact, found that I was a walking paradox- full of absurd contradictions and constantly fitting into opposing categories all at once. Maybe, in reality, I'm just a bad categorizer. Or, just maybe, I had found my first example of the many to come reflecting my paradoxical nature- a messy person with organization OCD.

Although I play it off like it's something I laugh about, I'll be the first to tell you that it was definitely something I struggled with on my identity quest. I spent the beginning of high school trying, like a typical freshman, to build up this image of myself that I so desperately wanted, and that I had decided would bring me happiness for the rest of my years here. I know you all know what image I was going for- the artsy, mysterious, doesn't need to try to succeed girl with a killer music taste and edgy clothes. While I cringe at all of that now (what's a killer music taste, anyway?), it really was what I wanted and strove for. You can imagine the horror and confusion I felt when I found myself wanting to belt out "I wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy" or feeling the need to tap my foot along with the beat of Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl." Being an extremely dramatic person, every time one of these things would happen, I feared that I had multiple personality disorder and would immediately change the song to something I thought was cool. Eventually, I admitted defeat and accepted the fact that I loved the tacky and the ridiculous almost as much as what, in my opinion, is beautiful, meaningful art and entertainment.

As usually happens with an epiphany, I found that this contrast applies to my life in more serious ways than just what I have on my iPod or DVR. There is contrast (but not conflict) within my own home, between the two people who raised me- my parents. Take my father, a man from small town called Bryan, Ohio, who married my mother, a middle-Eastern woman from Damascus, Syria. This union landed me with a label I've had since birth, and a label that most people find peculiar: Arab-American. We live in a world where it is acceptable for Americans to play internet games dedicated to "shooting the Muslim" and where Arabs refer to George Bush as an idiot with ears too big for his small brain. Culturally, I witness two very different views as well. For example, here, I go to the pool where I and all my friends wear bikinis; there, it is indecent for me to wear shorts too high above my knee. As a child, this confused me, and there was so much that frustrated me because I didn't understand. But, as a young adult, I feel I, personally, could not have been blessed with a better ethnic identity. I now enter the real world with a deeper understanding of cultural differences, compromising, and respect for others than many will ever have in their lifetime.

Time and time again, I found contrast and paradox. My friends! My choices! My meals! Who else goes through the drive-thru for french fries on the way to the gym? I found people constantly in shock at my decisions and preferences, always saying, "I never expected you to... when I thought you..." Always with a confused look. And, never did I hear this more than regarding the people who I love and spend time with. It's natural for people to assume that you are close with those that are like you. Some, like I did, even assume you should automatically dislike a certain category of people because there's just no way it would work between your stereotype and theirs. For years, I thought this was the case, with one person in particular, and it was this person that I thought of when I realized that my life as a paradox bled into my social interactions. Many of you know her- she is blonde and fabulous, successful and wise; her name is Molly McConn. For years, I hated Molly (to be fair, she wasn't too fond of me either) until, God forbid, we had a conversation. We are now best friends, and, in the end, found that we were similar, despite how much we seem to contrast on the outside. From Molly and all of my best friends who are so different than her and so different than me, I have learned more than I ever will with a closed mind and an arrogant attitude.

Perhaps this is something we all face- the things we do and feel that we don't understand about and didn't expect from ourselves. Yes, I admit that being a walking paradox is hard. Often, I end up confused, flustered and, at times, feel like a hypocrite. But, in the end, I wouldn't change it for anything. Every time I embrace something I never thought I would like or feel, I become a little more humble and a little more at peace with myself.

Sincerely,

Lana

I'm Looking for a Dead End Song

Before today, I never fully understood the concept of forgiveness. I always found it beautiful, but I never understood how it worked; it's just not logical. That's not to say that it was hard for me to forgive someone, it really wasn't, but I just never understood how our hearts and minds allowed for forgiveness. 

So, I think I've figured out what forgiveness means to me. Earlier tonight, I was thinking about a stupid (though it wasn't at the time) fight between the lil' headitors (Dani, Claire and I! We finished the Yearbook tonight! I'm so proud of the 3 of us!) and our teacher, and while the reasons I was so mad (love ya, Harty) are completely valid, I couldn't bring myself to care anymore. Why? Because my love for her completely outweighs anything negative I felt during that fight.

To me, forgiveness is when your love for someone infinitely outweighs any anger, hurt, resentment or anything of the sort. It's the moment where those negative feelings become work, and you're just happy they're around. I don't think you can work towards forgiving someone, I think it happens naturally when you fall back in love with them.

Anyway, just a random thought. I'll probably be editing that idea once I gain some more perspective. You know what I won't be editing, though? The Reata 2010-2011. Because it's finally over.

So Give It Up, Throw Your Hats In The Air

New semester. Last semester. It's odd to think about how in 8 months, I won't be living here anymore. Well... It's odd, but it also kind of makes sense. I feel like everything that we've worked for and pushed for and talked about it is... here. Finally. Oddly. The final semester, the last few months, so densely packed with moments of reflection and pangs of sadness and waves of relief. Ha. We're all going to be emotional wrecks by the end of this one. So, here's to that. To the real, official beginning of The End. The moment we've all been waiting for.

(Upon the request of Tyler and Annie)
Dear Tyler Killion,
Here is your official mention on my blog. While this is not four pages (that is yet to come!), I thought this would count for something. Galveston was fun! (Except when you almost threw the six of us off the sea wall at least 204173498 times on that horrible pedaling contraption.) Have a good week!
-LB

HERE'S THE PICTURE YOU ALL MADE FUN OF ME FOR TAKING.

And This Is Where I Grew Up

New semester. Last semester. It's odd to think about how in 8 months, I won't be living here anymore. Well... It's odd, but it also kind of makes sense. I feel like everything that we've worked for and pushed for and talked about is... here. Finally. Oddly. The final semester, the last few months, so densely packed with moments of reflection and pangs of sadness and waves of relief. Ha. We're all going to be emotional wrecks by the end of this one. So, here's to that. To the real, official beginning of The End. The moment we've all been waiting for.

(Upon the request of Tyler and Annie)
Dear Tyler Killion,
Here is your official mention on my blog. While this is not four pages (that is yet to come!), I thought this would count for something. Galveston was fun! (Except when you almost threw the six of us off the sea wall at least 204173498 times on that horrible pedaling contraption.) Have a good week!
-LB

Every Time It Rains

And it's raining. I love the concept of rain. Yes, I hate the way it gets you wet, the way it makes the simple task of going to your car into a huge pain and the way it makes you cold even if it's 80 outside, but the concept of rain is something else. It's something absurd in my mind, a true oddity, and I think that if it didn't happen every day, no one would believe that it could. Think about it. Water is falling from the sky. Water. Something that our bodies and plants need is falling from the sky. How strange. It's more than that though. The rain personifies a therapist and a healer to me. The soothing, steady beat relaxes me and the darkness it creates calms me down, giving me stress-relief that no medicine could provide. Then there's the metaphorical part of it. I, being the cheesiest person in the world that I know, see everything as a metaphor. It pours down, bathes the earth and leaves it feeling refreshed and free of the dirty things that had been clinging onto it. In that way, I feel like when it's raining, it's time for me to return to myself, remember who I am in case I've forgotten and to throw away anything dirty or damaging from my mind or heart. Oh, listen to me, bringing on the cheese again. No matter, I'm sure to some extent someone knows what I'm talking about. So, today, take a step back, remember why it is you're doing what you're doing with your life and make sure it has something to do with what you want.

"Burning solid, burning thin the burning rim."

"When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire."

When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire? The first time I heard this quote ("Your Ex-Lover is Dead" by Stars), I was speechless. There were so many images being tossed around in my head: chaos, self-destruction, burning people at the stake, riots, the burning of books. I was confused and shrank back. Very rarely do quotes inspire such a reaction in someone, and this is exactly why I took a lot of time to think about how I would come to interpret it.
When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire. The first interpretation I stuck with had to do with living in a place where all your belongings and things that matter to you have been taken away or "burned" and then, finally, one has to fight back and "set themselves on fire" with passion. A little cheesy, I know, but this is just what my head came up with.
This year, my second interpretation was a little more personal. As most of my fellow classmates have come to realize, this year hasn't exactly reached it's maximum potential yet. Don't get me wrong, I'm having a great time, loving my classes and managing to enjoy yearbook most of the time, but still, there's been something missing. It's as if I burned through all of the things I mildly enjoyed and have gotten bored of the routine. Yes, I said "burned" for a reason. At this point, I feel like "there's nothing left to burn" and now, I "have to set myself on fire." Oh, crap. Doesn't that sound delightful. Well, to me, it does. When I hear set yourself on fire, to me it means to get passionate about something and throw yourself into it, learn all about it and want to share it with everyone. So now, I'm reading again and learning again and asking questions again and thinking weirdly again; I'm setting myself on fire in the best way I know how.

And, in conclusion, I ask you to do the same. Set yourself on fire. What do you like to do? Practice it. What do you wonder about? Delve into it. What do you want to share? Talk about it. Do whatever it takes to set yourself on fire.

"In a technicolor dream"

The conversation I had with my body for about my entire life before senior year:

Me: Let me stay up late.
My body: No.
Me: I want to stay up late.
My body: No.
Me: Can I stay up late tonight? It's a Friday. I'm hanging out with some friends.
My body: Yes!
Me: Really?!
My body: No.
Me: I'll give you coffee!
My body: Don't care.
Me: This is ridiculous. It's my decision.
My body: In your dreams. Get it? Get it??
Me: I hate you.
My body: Fall asleep, idiot.

But, now, things are so different. Welcome to Senior Year/College-Prep, learning how to stay up late doing work until "it's so late, I can't even look at the clock anymore" or just having a good time with good friends. I'm happy to finally be here; there's something Alice in Wonderland-y about nighttime.

"In this way, Mr. K will challenge the world"

I have this habit of trying to fit myself into a "type." We all do it, I know. In fact, that's something we learned about in Psychology a few days ago... but that's a whole something else. Anyway, "Types." Right. Most of the time I trick myself into believing that I do fall into a category, that I do make sense as a person, but then, on occasion, reality comes for a visit and points it finger at me and says, "drop the charade, man. You're full of contradictions and absurdities." So, let's just think about that for a sec. We all don't fit into a stereotype. All human beings. That just sounds like chaos to me. In my mind, I see the 6 billion people of the earth all dancing and screaming and talking at the same time. Ha. Can you imagine? Anyway... Moving on. What I'm getting at is every time I realize (again) that I don't nor do I need to fit into a mold, I get a little happier because I can embrace what I actually love instead of forcing myself to try and love something my type would love. Get it? Whatever. Neither do I. Kind of.

To illustrate what the heck I'm talking about, I decided to include some of the wonderful contradictions that make up the mess you know as "Lana" or "Lama" or "that hot mess" or"who is that girl talking to herself?" Mk. Judge away.

What I watch.

What I listen to.

What I read.

What I eat.

Who I grace with my friendship.

(BAHA)

Recognize contradictions like these within yourself? We are all more alike then we let on.