I am moving again, and after packing just one box of books, I look at the rest of my room full of crap to realize how much I hate moving. I was lucky last time because my parents moved from Montana to Nevada while I was still in Poland. Being on the other side of the world is an awesome excuse, isn't it?
In fact, I have moved at least five times in twenty years while most people spend most of their childhood and adolescence in the same house. On average, that's every four years that I have moved. I know I should not complain because I am sure there are families out there that have to relocate every few months, but five times to pack up your life and move is still hard. It's not because of the emotional attachment. It's the packing, loading, and unpacking that is a pain in the ass. I can't believe I have accumulated this much stuff, and I am not the kind of person who holds on to things unless it's really sentimental or I still need it. I should probably go through my things again, though I am nowhere near as bad as some people
Yesterday, I helped my mom bag clothes she intends on giving to Goodwill. The result was a mountain of seven trash bags full of apparel that could probably clothe all of Africa. Her closet was noticeably more organized; on the other hand, she still had twice as many clothes as me. My philosophy is that if I have forgotten about it and don't miss it, it might as well go in the "give away" pile.
I may have lied a little about the emotional attachment part. When I was fifteen, my parents, brother, and I moved to Montana from California. I missed California purely because of the fact that everything was so familiar and it was the only place where I grew up. It was also the first time I lived so far away from both of my sisters.
Suddenly, life thrust me into a place that had completely different people, surroundings, weather, and lifestyle. Looking back on it, I don't miss much about Montana aside from my best friend (who still lives there). It's been only a year and a half and I've forgotten most of my classmates. I absolutely did not fit in because a lot of people in my class grew up with each other.Together, they experienced those times that make life memorable - the first day of school, the first night away from home, the first point in their lives where the opposite sex was not a source of cooties. I am sure I was not the only one to be the outsider, though it certainly felt like I was alone. The exceptional few people, however, I probably will not forget because they were the only ones that ever bothered to be friendly with "that snob from California".
Being negative never amounted to anything. But I'm admitting my hypocrisy in saying that I am dreading this move. I just want the packing/unpacking done already so we can all settle in to accustom ourselves to the new house.
Maybe I should get rid of everything and buy new stuff. Ah, only in a perfect world.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Saturday, January 21, 2006
My Favorite Poem
"The Highwayman"
by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness,
and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness,
and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Today was yet another busy day at work. People were rude, everyone was overloaded with projects that had to be done, and we were short two booksellers. I'd have to say that this past week alone has been more difficult than the weeks before Christmas. Don't people have jobs and schools to go to instead of pestering us retail people?
I finally have tomorrow and Thursday off to sit on my ass and do absolutely nothing. I earned it, considering that I work my ass off for a job that does not pay me enough to work that hard. If I manage to get dressed, I'll probably go to the movies or use one of my gift cards at the mall. Maybe if I'm ambitious enough, I'll go pay for my classes tomorrow instead of Thursday.
*Sigh*
I can't wait for summer to come.
I finally have tomorrow and Thursday off to sit on my ass and do absolutely nothing. I earned it, considering that I work my ass off for a job that does not pay me enough to work that hard. If I manage to get dressed, I'll probably go to the movies or use one of my gift cards at the mall. Maybe if I'm ambitious enough, I'll go pay for my classes tomorrow instead of Thursday.
*Sigh*
I can't wait for summer to come.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Another year
I rang in the new year by lying in bed in the dark while listening to the fireworks going off outside. I honestly did not feel like celebrating. I was not invited to a party, nor did I want to watch the ball drop in Times Square. The same thing happened last year and the years before that, only with a new number attached at the end.
I'm not trying to be cynical. I've just been so bored with life lately, that nothing really impresses or excites me anymore. When I am alone at work and performing a task on "auto-pilot", I find myself deep in thought of being somewhere else. I suppose if I am bored, then I must be boring because even after I've tried to socialize, I still find myself alone most of the time when I am not at work or school. I sometimes wonder if people really do take my sarcastic remarks and playful teasing as spiteful, bitchy, and mean. Certain people just don't know how to handle that, and they end up thinking of me as a person that should be avoided. In all honesty, no matter how outspoken I can be, I still am a shy person. It's often difficult for me to approach people first, and I usually have to consciously push myself to be the initiator. I wait for people to approach me first, and when they don't it becomes just another missed opportunity.
I begin to think that maybe I am the only person who really knows the real me. I know all my faults, weaknesses, and strong points, and you know, I accept myself for who I am. I procrastinate; I am realistic, yet I can't help but also be idealistic; I am a perfectionist to a point, I like things to go my way (but I am willing to compromise), I often see the negative aspects first before the positive ones, and I strive for the approval of my peers. At the same time, I try to be myself as much as possible. I have hypochondriac tendencies, though I insist it's a result of an extremely vivid imagination. I get jealous. I tend to dwell on things I cannot have, and feel bitter towards the people who do have what I want. I would rather avoid confrontation even though I know that when I do confront my problems, I'll feel better afterwards. I have a passion for expanding my horizons. Not a day goes by that I do not think of Europe, exotic locales, and adventures I could be having right now instead of sitting in front of this computer screen. I think ahead and prefer to have a plan instead of just "winging it". I am not a naive person. I have survived hardships that most people my age should not have experienced in the first place. Because of these hardships, I believe that I am a stronger person, and I accept obstacles as they come.
I keep waiting for something better to come along to improve my life. If I wait too long, my life will pass before me and I'll regret not doing something when I could have.
I'm not trying to be cynical. I've just been so bored with life lately, that nothing really impresses or excites me anymore. When I am alone at work and performing a task on "auto-pilot", I find myself deep in thought of being somewhere else. I suppose if I am bored, then I must be boring because even after I've tried to socialize, I still find myself alone most of the time when I am not at work or school. I sometimes wonder if people really do take my sarcastic remarks and playful teasing as spiteful, bitchy, and mean. Certain people just don't know how to handle that, and they end up thinking of me as a person that should be avoided. In all honesty, no matter how outspoken I can be, I still am a shy person. It's often difficult for me to approach people first, and I usually have to consciously push myself to be the initiator. I wait for people to approach me first, and when they don't it becomes just another missed opportunity.
I begin to think that maybe I am the only person who really knows the real me. I know all my faults, weaknesses, and strong points, and you know, I accept myself for who I am. I procrastinate; I am realistic, yet I can't help but also be idealistic; I am a perfectionist to a point, I like things to go my way (but I am willing to compromise), I often see the negative aspects first before the positive ones, and I strive for the approval of my peers. At the same time, I try to be myself as much as possible. I have hypochondriac tendencies, though I insist it's a result of an extremely vivid imagination. I get jealous. I tend to dwell on things I cannot have, and feel bitter towards the people who do have what I want. I would rather avoid confrontation even though I know that when I do confront my problems, I'll feel better afterwards. I have a passion for expanding my horizons. Not a day goes by that I do not think of Europe, exotic locales, and adventures I could be having right now instead of sitting in front of this computer screen. I think ahead and prefer to have a plan instead of just "winging it". I am not a naive person. I have survived hardships that most people my age should not have experienced in the first place. Because of these hardships, I believe that I am a stronger person, and I accept obstacles as they come.
I keep waiting for something better to come along to improve my life. If I wait too long, my life will pass before me and I'll regret not doing something when I could have.
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