Maria's Mish Mash
My Latin teacher made us read the Iliad and the Odyssey my senior year. I found them both extremely drab and a touch violent for my taste. However, I loved my teacher and how he presented some of the information about the epics. For instance, he taught us about "in media res," which means "in the middle of things," and is utilized in greek epics. Essentially, it just means that you start a story right in the middle of the important events and make the readers catch up. Lots of novels and movies do it, but the greek epics are deemed the original and the most famous.
My teacher always thought this was a really cool concept. It blew his mind. He saw it as a complete work of art. But, when you think about it, everything is in media res. Even life. I mean, yes, sure, the beginning of life would be the opposite of in media res. If a novel starts with the birth of a baby, it is not the middle, it is truly the beginning of life. But, it is not the beginning of life for the parents. When you're born, you come out right smack dab in media res of your parents' lives. You may be new, but the world around you isn't.
I once walked through the halls with underwear crumpled in my pocket. And no, it wasn't because of some wild adventure, that's not really my thing, it was because I just throw my clothes on the ground of my room all the time. Unwittingly, I put on a shirt that had a pair of underwear inside of it. The underwear stayed nicely snugged into the shirt all through first period until I stood up at the sound of the bell and the underwear fell out right in front of everyone. People pointed and laughed. I honestly wasn't really ashamed. I mean, everyone wears underwear. It's not like they were dirty or weird, they were just a plain color.
One time, while scrimmaging an older basketball team, I went to block this bigger girl's shot, and completely missed the ball. My hand kept going, I could not stop it. I saw what was about to happen, but my arm's trajectory could not be intercepted, and the speed at which it was moving could not be hastened. My mind saw, but my arm did not. My hand slapped down on her shelf of boobs super hard. It had to kill. Everyone laughed and she proceeded to score on me, not seeming to care one bit. I however, was traumatized. That moment haunts me.
Another time, we had this layup drill where we would get the ball at half court and run full speed to the basket. A defender also started at half court to defend us. We were told to go full speed and straight to the hoop, no jump shots. I hated this drill. As a shooting guard who pretty much never once drove to the basket in her life, I was scared shitless of this drill and always failed miserably at the task at hand. One particular night in the dimly lit yellowy gym, however, I had a sick hesitation dribble that derailed my opponent and allowed me to take the ball all the way to the hoop. My team went nuts. My coach shouted, "that hesitation GOT her!" I looked behind me and discovered that I had sent my defender to the ground. She was sprawled out laughing at herself. I had broken her ankles. Not literally of course. It felt amazing.
I had to read this book called Steal Like an Artist, which is really an amazing piece of art and I highly recommend it. Anyway, in the book, they say that you should write to teach people something. To share secrets. They give the example that Martha Stewart shared her secrets on cooking and taught people how to make cool crafts. Or how Bob Ross taught people the secrets to making happy trees. I've been thinking a lot recently about what secrets I can reveal to the world. What do I have to offer? I have this desire to talk to people and share stories and write and blog ... but what do people get out of their encounters with my writing? What secrets am I sharing.
In all honesty, the reason I struggle with this is mainly because I am a devout secret keeper. I talk openly and freely if you catch me at the right time or say the right things to prompt me. However, the majority of the time, I am very shy when it comes to topics of importance. I can talk for hours about where I have been and what I have done, but I will almost never mention how I felt about these instances. I can openly tell people that I struggled with myself and self harmed in middle school, but almost no one knows the true reason. In fact, I am not sure anyone really knows, not even myself. I lie to myself a lot and create different stories to tell to different people to protect their feelings. I get so caught up in these clouds of confusion that I often forget the truth myself. I tell people that that time of my life is blacked out -- I do not remember the majority of eighth grade and freshman year. And this is true. My mind was so befuddled by itself that it just trashed everything and started over. When people say things in direct question format or tell personal stories it can jog my memory, but I tend to avoid these situations so that I do not have to think about it. I am not proud of that version of Maria, and she is completely eradicated from current Maria's mind.
That is just one example. But you see what I mean? I can give events and anecdotes, but never emotions behind them. You'll never hear me say things like "yeah I am really sad." Anger is the one exception. I love ranting about how pissed I am, especially regarding sports and school. But sadness, sadness I will never admit to. I remember, for example, in middle school, my boyfriend of like two months broke up with me. I told my mom and she gave me a hug and asked how I was. I just shrugged my shoulders and we continued on. I do not enjoy sharing my emotions, and honestly it is not really a problem. People tell me it is emotionally deprecating and harmful, but I have been pretty damn happy for years, and some terrible things have happened to me in that time span. I just do not see my emotions as other people's business.
Again, catch me at 2 am and you might see a whole different side of me ... but probably not. I can tell you with a deadpan face the story of my mother's illness. When I do this, people look so sad and confused, and I just kinda continue on and change the subject. I promise there are emotions behind that story, I just do not enjoy blabbering like a fool in front of people.
Okay so the reason I mention this. I am not ready to write a novel (follow up to my last post) because authors have to be willing to share emotions to write. If I am to share my secrets (or what modern internet folks would call life hacks), then I need to be willing to share my emotions with people. I think I have a lot to offer people. I may only be 18, but my brain has encountered a lot of synapses. I really liked this line of a book I read recently. I do not have it on me, so I cannot quote it exactly, but it essentially was like "wisdom comes from experience, not age." A saying my sister and I have discussed several times. In fact, I almost sent it to her. I have one particular example that I think really shows this. I do not mean to offend, I am simply speaking how the world looks to me.
My grandma on my father's side had Alzheimer's (pronounced with a z not a t, folks) my entire life, before she passed away when I was in seventh grade. She got really bad. At the time, I thought she was a typical case of Alzheimer's disease. However, when my mother's mother was diagnosed in my high school years, I came to realize that Grandma Annie experienced the complete extreme of Alzheimer's. She had no physical functions, and could only shout "die" on repeat. No other words. She had no clue who any of us were, and her ultimate demise was because her brain could no longer remember how to cough. She technically drowned due to water in her lungs that she could not cough. I hate to damper the mood, but this is what I grew up with. Due to these experiences and interactions with Grandma Annie at a young age, I am very good with old people. Especially people with Alzheimer's. All of my siblings and relatives on my father's side are. You cannot go through that and not be good with old people. When my grandma Kay was diagnosed, I could not help but be disturbed by how some people treated her. They roll their eyes when she talks, get exasperated with her repetition, and sometimes even snip at her when she talks too much. I cannot stand it. I try very hard not to stand for the impatience and rude behavior. My point being, people on my mother's side had never experienced this before (not my mom herself, obviously) and thus had no clue how to act around my grandma. However, whenever youthful Maria speaks up, she is treated with utter disrespect and dismissed as being "too young to know things like this," even though I did things like this for twelve years. Wisdom comes from experience, not age. Just because you are sixty years old does not mean you have seen everything in the world. In fact, a lot of sixty year olds have seen less than me, and less than a lot of millennials as technology allows us to explore topics and concepts and interact with more people than sixty year olds could in their youth.
Getting off on a lot of tangents tonight, sorry. As proven by this post, I have a lot to say. A lot to talk about. A lot of secrets and tricks to life to share. I have a story to tell, I just do not yet know what I will teach, as Steal Like an Artist requires me to do. I gotta confront myself before I allow you all to confront me. So stick around, and be patient. It will happen, you have my word (although not a promise, because I was taught to never promise).
My teacher always thought this was a really cool concept. It blew his mind. He saw it as a complete work of art. But, when you think about it, everything is in media res. Even life. I mean, yes, sure, the beginning of life would be the opposite of in media res. If a novel starts with the birth of a baby, it is not the middle, it is truly the beginning of life. But, it is not the beginning of life for the parents. When you're born, you come out right smack dab in media res of your parents' lives. You may be new, but the world around you isn't.
I once walked through the halls with underwear crumpled in my pocket. And no, it wasn't because of some wild adventure, that's not really my thing, it was because I just throw my clothes on the ground of my room all the time. Unwittingly, I put on a shirt that had a pair of underwear inside of it. The underwear stayed nicely snugged into the shirt all through first period until I stood up at the sound of the bell and the underwear fell out right in front of everyone. People pointed and laughed. I honestly wasn't really ashamed. I mean, everyone wears underwear. It's not like they were dirty or weird, they were just a plain color.
One time, while scrimmaging an older basketball team, I went to block this bigger girl's shot, and completely missed the ball. My hand kept going, I could not stop it. I saw what was about to happen, but my arm's trajectory could not be intercepted, and the speed at which it was moving could not be hastened. My mind saw, but my arm did not. My hand slapped down on her shelf of boobs super hard. It had to kill. Everyone laughed and she proceeded to score on me, not seeming to care one bit. I however, was traumatized. That moment haunts me.
Another time, we had this layup drill where we would get the ball at half court and run full speed to the basket. A defender also started at half court to defend us. We were told to go full speed and straight to the hoop, no jump shots. I hated this drill. As a shooting guard who pretty much never once drove to the basket in her life, I was scared shitless of this drill and always failed miserably at the task at hand. One particular night in the dimly lit yellowy gym, however, I had a sick hesitation dribble that derailed my opponent and allowed me to take the ball all the way to the hoop. My team went nuts. My coach shouted, "that hesitation GOT her!" I looked behind me and discovered that I had sent my defender to the ground. She was sprawled out laughing at herself. I had broken her ankles. Not literally of course. It felt amazing.
I had to read this book called Steal Like an Artist, which is really an amazing piece of art and I highly recommend it. Anyway, in the book, they say that you should write to teach people something. To share secrets. They give the example that Martha Stewart shared her secrets on cooking and taught people how to make cool crafts. Or how Bob Ross taught people the secrets to making happy trees. I've been thinking a lot recently about what secrets I can reveal to the world. What do I have to offer? I have this desire to talk to people and share stories and write and blog ... but what do people get out of their encounters with my writing? What secrets am I sharing.
In all honesty, the reason I struggle with this is mainly because I am a devout secret keeper. I talk openly and freely if you catch me at the right time or say the right things to prompt me. However, the majority of the time, I am very shy when it comes to topics of importance. I can talk for hours about where I have been and what I have done, but I will almost never mention how I felt about these instances. I can openly tell people that I struggled with myself and self harmed in middle school, but almost no one knows the true reason. In fact, I am not sure anyone really knows, not even myself. I lie to myself a lot and create different stories to tell to different people to protect their feelings. I get so caught up in these clouds of confusion that I often forget the truth myself. I tell people that that time of my life is blacked out -- I do not remember the majority of eighth grade and freshman year. And this is true. My mind was so befuddled by itself that it just trashed everything and started over. When people say things in direct question format or tell personal stories it can jog my memory, but I tend to avoid these situations so that I do not have to think about it. I am not proud of that version of Maria, and she is completely eradicated from current Maria's mind.
That is just one example. But you see what I mean? I can give events and anecdotes, but never emotions behind them. You'll never hear me say things like "yeah I am really sad." Anger is the one exception. I love ranting about how pissed I am, especially regarding sports and school. But sadness, sadness I will never admit to. I remember, for example, in middle school, my boyfriend of like two months broke up with me. I told my mom and she gave me a hug and asked how I was. I just shrugged my shoulders and we continued on. I do not enjoy sharing my emotions, and honestly it is not really a problem. People tell me it is emotionally deprecating and harmful, but I have been pretty damn happy for years, and some terrible things have happened to me in that time span. I just do not see my emotions as other people's business.
Again, catch me at 2 am and you might see a whole different side of me ... but probably not. I can tell you with a deadpan face the story of my mother's illness. When I do this, people look so sad and confused, and I just kinda continue on and change the subject. I promise there are emotions behind that story, I just do not enjoy blabbering like a fool in front of people.
Okay so the reason I mention this. I am not ready to write a novel (follow up to my last post) because authors have to be willing to share emotions to write. If I am to share my secrets (or what modern internet folks would call life hacks), then I need to be willing to share my emotions with people. I think I have a lot to offer people. I may only be 18, but my brain has encountered a lot of synapses. I really liked this line of a book I read recently. I do not have it on me, so I cannot quote it exactly, but it essentially was like "wisdom comes from experience, not age." A saying my sister and I have discussed several times. In fact, I almost sent it to her. I have one particular example that I think really shows this. I do not mean to offend, I am simply speaking how the world looks to me.
My grandma on my father's side had Alzheimer's (pronounced with a z not a t, folks) my entire life, before she passed away when I was in seventh grade. She got really bad. At the time, I thought she was a typical case of Alzheimer's disease. However, when my mother's mother was diagnosed in my high school years, I came to realize that Grandma Annie experienced the complete extreme of Alzheimer's. She had no physical functions, and could only shout "die" on repeat. No other words. She had no clue who any of us were, and her ultimate demise was because her brain could no longer remember how to cough. She technically drowned due to water in her lungs that she could not cough. I hate to damper the mood, but this is what I grew up with. Due to these experiences and interactions with Grandma Annie at a young age, I am very good with old people. Especially people with Alzheimer's. All of my siblings and relatives on my father's side are. You cannot go through that and not be good with old people. When my grandma Kay was diagnosed, I could not help but be disturbed by how some people treated her. They roll their eyes when she talks, get exasperated with her repetition, and sometimes even snip at her when she talks too much. I cannot stand it. I try very hard not to stand for the impatience and rude behavior. My point being, people on my mother's side had never experienced this before (not my mom herself, obviously) and thus had no clue how to act around my grandma. However, whenever youthful Maria speaks up, she is treated with utter disrespect and dismissed as being "too young to know things like this," even though I did things like this for twelve years. Wisdom comes from experience, not age. Just because you are sixty years old does not mean you have seen everything in the world. In fact, a lot of sixty year olds have seen less than me, and less than a lot of millennials as technology allows us to explore topics and concepts and interact with more people than sixty year olds could in their youth.
Getting off on a lot of tangents tonight, sorry. As proven by this post, I have a lot to say. A lot to talk about. A lot of secrets and tricks to life to share. I have a story to tell, I just do not yet know what I will teach, as Steal Like an Artist requires me to do. I gotta confront myself before I allow you all to confront me. So stick around, and be patient. It will happen, you have my word (although not a promise, because I was taught to never promise).
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