Still hopeful, through it all

Since I saw the new Harry Potter movie last Wednesday, I've been wanting to write about it. But how does one begin a story detailing the biggest disappointment of her life? So I decided to wait, hoping that a short time would clear my mind.

It did not.

I hated that movie. Really - from deep inside, I despised it. I had tried so hard to go into the experience virginal, without having read a single review or listened to a single friend's account. Then, a mere three hours before showtime, I broke. I listened to a friend's negative opinion and did a quick Google for reviews. Instantly, my shoulders sank with the first headline: "New 'Harry Potter' Loses the Old Magic."

When I think about it now, I went into the situation expecting more than was humanly possible to deliver. Nothing that any director could have created would have lived up to my standards for this movie. I know it sounds silly, but the book The Order of the Phoenix is very special to me. Not only is it my absolute favorite book in the series, but it affects me in a way that very few books can - it just gets to me. I'm not even being dramatic, here... this book is very important to me. Needless to say, I was anticipating the movie to be just as incredible.

Within the first half hour, I was ready to leave the theater. Then I reminded myself that there's no way the movie could include everything from the book - but so far the basics were the same. A little more than halfway through, though, something in the movie was so drastically different than the book that I felt anger rise from my throat. I watched the rest of the film with a scowl on my face.

Last Saturday, I went to see it again. After my initial anger faded into disappointment, I realized that I had gone into that theater expecting to see the movie that played out in my mind each time I read Phoenix... which is way more times than I'm willing to admit to anyone. I stealed myself for any comparison to the book - I forced myself to think of the movie as an independent being with characters that just happen to have the same names. By the end, I wasn't nearly as angry as I was days before, but I still didn't enjoy it as much as I could have.

There was no excitement, no mystery - nothing like the previous movies, especially "The Goblet of Fire." It seemed like the other characters were only present to give Harry a break from hyperventilating all the time - they didn't work together as a team like they always have. Just writing about it is making me depressed all over again.

It's strange (and a little bit pathetic) how a set of juvenile books and adapted films can be such a big part of my life. Bear with me.

It was like when you were a kid, and you waited all year for Christmas to come because you just knew that your parents had picked up your millions of hints you'd been dropping all year about the really expensive bike you needed. But then when you come out of your bedroom on Christmas morning, you look around at all the packages and notice that not a single one is large enough to hold the extravagant gift you swore you were getting. Still, you rush in to your pile, hopeful through it all, and nothing is like you thought it would be - your parents had bought you rollerskates. Sure, they're practical and they'll get you around, same as a bike would, but they leave so much left to be desired. You smile grudgingly and thank them for the gift, silently stewing that they couldn't deliver your dreams. It was like they hadn't listened, and they couldn't give you what had been so important to you for so long. You set the roller skates aside and don't so much as glance in their direction for days. Finally you pick them up and hold them, realizing that you shouldn't hate them because of what they're not, but appreciate them for what they are. You should be happy that you were given a gift at all, even if it didn't live up to your standards.

Boohoo.

Anyway, I picked up my reserved copy of The Deathly Hallows yesterday morning, but was too busy to start it until now. I plan on spending my entire day on the couch, reading as quickly as I can and praying that none of my favorite characters die. It's weird to think that in just a few minutes, nothing will ever be the same - there'll be no more anxiety waiting for the next book to come out, no more racing through a text and chiding myself for not making it last, no more predictions that Harry couldn't possibly be the one to die.

See you when it's over......................

Eavesdropping between cycles

I was at the laundromat a couple nights ago and overheard an employee and another customer having a conversation. It was just the three of us in there. I was reading a book, and they were talking loudly to each other across the room... so I guess I wasn't eavesdropping as much as I was overhearing.

Anyway, Customer was talking about her late husband and how long it took her to get over his death. Employee was relating, talking about how long it took her to get over her first husband's death. Customer said that although she misses her late husband, she would much rather be windowed than divorced. Employee agreed, saying that she is widowed and divorced, so she would know.

At this point, I still had my book open, but it was only for show. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. These women would choose watching their loved ones die over signing a couple of divorce papers?! Crazy.

As morbid as it seems to admit, I can almost understand their point of view. In some strange way, it must be a little comforting to know that your husband didn't choose to leave you. He didn't make the conscious decision that he didn't want to be with you anymore - he didn't fall out of love with you. He simply died, and that was the end of it. As a widow, I imagine you'd never have to live with the feeling that your spouse, at one point, promised to live the rest of his life with you and then changed his mind. You'd never have to wonder what you did to make yourself unloveable to him.

But at the same time... no! Death is absolutely not the better choice. Granted, I've never experienced either, but it just sounds so wrong to say you'd rather be widowed than divorced. I don't think I would want to live in a world without my ex-husband. There's always the possibility of bumping into each other on the street ten years down the road... reconnecting... remembering what it was that existed between the two of you in the first place. I think I would want the opportunity to torture myself with thoughts of what he's doing now, who he's with, if he's laughing. Maybe I'm selfish. Or a masochist.

Maybe Employee just didn't have a very happy marriage. Maybe her ex-husband abused her or her children, and she hates the thought of him going on with his life after what he did to them. Maybe she'd rather he was dead. I have no idea. But on the surface, the idea of choosing death over divorce is appalling to me.

A Cheap and Easy Way to Reinvent Yourself

There's a woman I know who pronounces her first name differently everytime she introduces herself to someone new. As far as I know, no one has ever let her know that we're on to her, but everyone is. It's become one of those things that you gossip about after a few beers, constantly peering over the top of the booth to make sure no one's within ear shot.

It really used to get on my nerves. I thought it was pretentious and annoying. Get over yourself, I thought. After years of biting my tongue everytime I heard her pronounce her own name, three days ago I finally understood why she does it.

She gets to be a different person with each name. Long "a" is intelligent and mature; short "a" is fun and spunky; "schwa a" is exotic and mysterious.

Now that I get it, I'm sort of jealous of her. Everytime she meets someone new, she creates a clean slate for herself. The new people will only know about her past mistakes if she chooses to tell them herself.

Thinking about things that I've done in the past and people I've hurt, I find myself wishing for a new way to say "Becky."

"The things that we love will tell us who we are."

Saw that quote today and it made me think. I suppose it is true - the things that we love will tell us something about ourselves, and combined, maybe they will tell us about the whole of ourselves.

I am a woman who loves to read.
I am a woman who loves animals.
... who loves the smell of clean laundry.
... who loves an overcast sky.
... who loves turkey sandwiches.
... who loves to laugh.
... who loves the sound fallen leaves make when blowing across pavement.

Those things I love alone do not make me who I am, though,

for I am also a woman who likes to gossip.
..... who has a swearing problem.
..... who often gets depressed.
..... who is obsessive about a lot of things.
..... who sometimes can smother people.
..... who isn't always as nice as she should be.
..... who sometimes settles for less than her best.

The things I love aren't all of me... I'm also hateful and hurtful, bitchy and whiney. I wish that the positive parts of me, the things that I love, were all that factored into the equation, but that wouldn't be honest.... but then again, I'm not always honest, either.

It's hard to admit that sometimes I like to talk badly about people and forget to take the garbage out on garbage day, but that's part of who I am and it wouldn't be fair to pass over those less-than-desireable pieces and focus only on the favorable ones.

Maybe instead, "The things that we love will tell us who we'd like to be."

Or, even more honestly, "The things that we love will tell us what we want others to see."

"There is very little difference between one person and another, but what little there is, is very important."

Sometimes it becomes so blatantly obvious just how different we all are. And, as William James points out, those differences are of the utmost importance.

For instance. Everyone has their weird, quirky little habits. Idiosyncrasies that are borderline obsessive-compulsive, in some cases. Like how I can't stand it when the volume on the tv or stereo isn't set on an even number.

Some things, like my weird volume fetish, are less distinctive than others. I think that I would look at my friends differently, less respectfully, if they didn't have some of the habits that they have.

I like the way Sandra salts her food. My dad eats half a peanut butter sandwich every day when he gets home from work, and has done so for as long as I can remember. Bridget says "Whaddayacallit" when she's thinking. Phil uses his knuckles to adjust the volume of the cd player in his truck. (I know this because of my aforementioned volume obsession.) Jen never takes the first product from the shelf in the store.

Just little things like that. If Bridget said "Um" instead of "Whaddayacallit" or if Phil used his fingertips to adjust the volume, they wouldn't be who they are.

It makes me wonder about the habits of my not-so-close friends, the ones I don't see every day and whose behavior I can't pinpoint. And if the habits of my high school friends have changed since we've grown apart. And how many other habits are contingent upon the out-of-the-ordinary ones I love so much.

"Getting to know you, getting to know all about you... getting to know you, getting to feel free and easy..."

Thanks to Rodgers & Hammerstein for that pretty little lyric that is sure to be stuck in my head all day.

In thinking about my post from the other night, I've come to the conclusion that it's not such a big deal. I'm the first to admit that I have a horrible habit of overreacting when a situation first becomes sour... but I'm also the first to admit that my hasty assessment was wrong, once I've had time to think about the situation. I was wrong. This isn't the relationship-altering piece of information that I first saw it to be. This does not change the personality of my friend. It is simply an addition, and one with which I must cope or overlook.

On a related note, the events of the other night caused me to remember something I once read by a philosopher by the name of Leopoldo Lugones. Although he was mainly a poet (and an anarchist :)), he dabbled in the realm of philosophy and epistemology, and generated one of the most interesting articles I've ever read. In it, he wrote about personality changes according to environment... how personality can change around different friends or settings. When I first read the article, it made me sad and a little scared. I was worried that if this was always the case, then how could I ever be confident that I knew the "real" person in each of my friends? More over, how could I be sure that I was showing them the "real" person in me? Much like Sunday night's conversation, these ideas caused me to reevaluate a lot of my relationships at the time.

Now, looking back, I can see that, although I still believe Lugones' theory of personality changes, these ties can be unbound. I think it's a kind of step-by-step process. First I have to get to know my friend in the Friend-Becky environment... how she is when she's around me. Then, once I've acheived that goal, I can either stay there or attempt to move on to the next level: the Friend-X1, Friend-X2, Friend-X3 environments, and so forth. It's like a video game. You have to beat the first level before you can make it to the second, third, or forth; once you beat all the levels, you have to beat the Boss (or "Big Guy" ;)) before you can beat the game.

I can confidently say that I have beaten several levels in each of my closest friends. The ones I consider family are the ones who have beaten several levels in me, as well. It's not as hard as I used to think.

Lugones was worried that he hadn't discovered in his friends the persons they were when they were most at ease, when they felt most comfortable with themselves. He worried that no one had discovered this ideal in him, either. I think he should have relaxed a little and not tried to beat the timer.

Ironically enough, he killed himself at the age of 63.

Too bad he didn't get the chance to see The King and I or hear Anna and the school children sing that cheery little diddy. Maybe he would have stopped worrying and lived a little bit longer.

"If my hands are fully occupied in holding on to something, I can neither give nor receive."

Against my hoping, the weight of indifference has not lifted since my last post. It's terrible... just waking up, going through the motions, and sleeping. Nothing seems to make much of a difference to me, and I feel like I'm only doing things because they have to be done... not because I'm excited about doing them or because I see the long-term benefits of getting them done. Even in writing this, for the first time in my life (I think), I don't really care about my sentence structure or grammar, and I don't intend to read over this before hitting the "Publish" button. And if you know me at all... you should know that sentence structure, grammar, and a lack of typos are pretty much the only things that I live for. See? I see that glaring preposition sitting there at the end of that sentence, just mocking me.... but I don't care. Let it laugh-- the delete key is just too far away right now.

Actually, when I think about it, I guess I usually get to feeling like this around my birthday every year. Even last year... the best birthday of my life, celebrated with the best friends of my life... the feeling of indifference was lingering, threatening to stamp out the happiness.

I guess I just kind of feel like I'm holding on to too many things and don't have room to pick up the new things that are coming into my life. It feels like both hands are full to capacity and that there is still so much left lying on the ground that needs to be picked up, but I'm not able. All small things, too, but small things that are very heavy.... grad school worries, future career worries, a few job-related issues... plus, last week I sent a short story and a few poems out to a couple different magazines, desperately trying to get published... it feels like nothing matters as much as hearing back from those magazines... for some reason, the security of the concreteness of the impending rejections is something I apparently think I need in my life right now.

Also last week... right before I sent away my work, actually... I got a call from Tom. The first call in a very long time. I don't talk much about Tom, but I still think about him every so often, wondering how he's doing, what's he's up to, who he's with... now I know: he is getting married. The first boy to ever tell me he loved me is marrying a girl named Jessica from Brooklyn. Not that I'm not happy for him... that's not it at all. I guess I'm just using this piece of news as another reason to feel sorry for myself, which is definitely not something I need right now. Memories of old relationships (and the flings that never made it that far) make up the majority of the weights I'm trying to juggle, I think.

Although I think I'm the furthest from feeling like Charlotte than I ever have been before, something she said when she was trying to get over Harry sticks out in my mind.... "For where I'm at right now, you might as well be a gay man with carnations." If you don't watch the show, you probably won't get it... but I know there are a few of you who do, and I hope you can make the connection.

Not the cheeriest of posts and, once again, I apologize. I'll cross my fingers for something to strike me as write-able.

"...doing not a thing, breathing just to breathe-- we might find some reason. But rushing around seems what's wrong with the world..."

Today I realized that it's fall.

I guess I've known for a few weeks now... but it just sank in today. I've complained about the cold just like everyone else... I've noticed the crispness in the air during the walk to class; I've watched the squirrels hurry to bury their loot; I've felt the change in the texture of the grass. But I haven't really paid attention to any of these things... I've acknowledged them and passed them by, not giving them a second thought as I continued on with my busy day.

Walking to the car this afternoon for a trip to Pick N Save, it hit me: fall has already arrived, and I missed welcoming it. Like an anxious pig-tailed child squinting for Santa Clause, I wait for the arrivial of fall every year, and I greet it with just as much enthusiasm as that excited child greets her rosy benefactor. Three years ago, I discovered that fall in St. John is not the most beautiful sight: fall in St. John cannot hold a candle to fall in Rensselaer. I will never forget how taken aback I was my freshman year by how SJC actually transformed with the onset of fall. Ever since my first season change on campus, watching the leaves turn has been something I've awaited with as much anticipation as homecoming, halloween, and Little 500.

This afternoon, however, after the initial delight of my surprise fall greeting, I physically felt my spirits drop. This is my last Rensselaer fall. This is the last year I will ever lay in bed and listen to the sound of dry leaves blowing along concrete parking lots. After this, it's back to lackluster St. John falls for me. The mere 40 miles south down I-65 makes such a difference in the leaves... the yellows are brighter, the oranges sharper, and the reds more melancholy.

I can't help but feel a little cheated. Because I was so non-responsive to the world around me, I missed spotting the very first green leaf with hints of yellow running through its veins-- I missed out on the wonderful aroma of the first real fall breeze, the one in which you can actually smell the cooler weather approaching you.

All is not lost, though. Now that I know my long-time friend has arrived, I plan to show her a good time. Nothing she offers me will go by unnoticed, no pile of leaves shall be left un-jumped in. Everytime I stand on the balcony and see the yellow, orange, and red organic skyline against the chapel towers, I will thank her for visiting. When my nose inhales that first breath of chilly autumn air every morning, I'll close my eyes and smile, internally listing why this fall breath is different from every other fall breath.

And next October when fall finds me in St. John, I will greet my friend again with enthusiasm and gratitude. Instead of moping around the memories of our Rensselaer years, I'll appreciate her more than ever, and gladly take the little she can offer me in my new location, knowing elsewhere she is blessing an entire campus with as much beauty in one place as they'll see in an entire lifetime.

"Worthless people blame their karma." (Burmese Proverb)

Today I slammed my toe into the blue recliner in our living room. I love this chair: it is friendly, worn-in, and comfortable. I never would have thought this chair, my friend, could hurt me so badly, After roughly three minutes of ramdonly linking extreme profanities (I hope my roommates don't think I'm a psychopath...) and watching my smallest toe grow large and blue, I walked to my room and sat at the computer. I checked my email, read some away messages, created a new Winamp playlist-- I forgot all about my injury, as often happens with minor toe stubbings. Then I got up to join Sandra in the war against the flies, and I nearly collapsed back into my seat. I couldn't believe the ache in my toe hadn't subsided yet. I limped off to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, refusing to look in the direction of the blue chair. As class time quickly approached and my Aleve had not yet proven "all day strong, all day long," I left a few minutes early to accommodate my newly-adopted hobble.

My solitary walk proved to be an insightful one. With each flip of my flip flop against my inflamed toe, I couldn't help but think of recent Core 9 dicsussion in which we used to example of stubbed toes to illustrate the different degrees of pain and suffering God allow sus. Why had He let me hurt my tow so badly? Feeling quite the victim and milking any dramatics I could muster, I began to look back for a time in which I could have displeased Him, causing Him to take vengence against me. Still basking in my martyrdom, I quickly made the connection between myself and Job and promptly stopped, lest the Lord should obliterate my oxen, sheep, camels, servants, and children. Instead I thought about what an awesome weekend I had had and how fantastic it was to see all my friends... above all, Bridget. I smiled when I remembered her limp and "sprained ankle" from the recent "soccer injury." All at once, it hit me: karma. I had laughed at her when she told me the real story behind her limp-- I had, in fact, cracked up over it and laughed with every lopsided saunter we made to the Beer and Brat Tent that afternoon. She asked me not to tell anyone the real story, but instead I told several people and specifically asked them to tease her about it, and I laughed even harder every time she pretended to get mad that I had divulged her secret. Now, in reality, Bridget didn't care that I did these horrible things. She thought it was funny (possibly she would have thought it less funny had Mel not been paying for the beer that had made her so lighthearted).

In retrospect, I really do think karma had something to do with my injury. I'm a firm believer in The Golden Rule and, although it was a minor incident, I got mine in the end. As the title of this post would otherwise suggest, I am not blaming my karma for anything. I just had that wonderful feeling of all the nuts and bolts finally clicking into place when I remembered the turn of events with Bridget. To me, the idea of karma is more of a comfort than something at which I can point my finger. It makes me feel a little better inside to have even an inkling of an idea as to why unfortunate things occur.

Even now, hours later, as my poor toe is no longer the size of a pinky and is the color of my purple Thermasilk shampoo bottle, I am picturing Bridget sandal-less at Benny's and I am giggling. I'm kinda pissed at myself for still thinking that it's funny, because I really think I might have, in fact, broken my little toe... but apparently not pissed enough to forget how hilarious it was when Mo and I ganged up on Bridget about the inconsistencies of her impairment.