What am I Passionate About - Freewrite

• Boston creme pie
• computer/video games
• Spanish language
• my faith
• the ministry
• comforting others
• listening
• ultimate frisbee
• my fiance
• taking care of my loved ones
• Chicago
• IQ tests
• definition of intelligence/gifted, etc
• social stereotypes/images of women (or men, but mostly women)
• skeleton keys
• cats, as pets
• writing, once I get into my niche
• swimming
• hiking (for the hike, not the exercise, so no crazy hard trails, please)
• singing, even though I don't have a very good voice
• wanting to travel
• spaghetti

What's Cooking

     Alright, then. I am going to come right out and say: I do not cook. I have made very few things in my life, and, with the exception of some pancakes-gone-wrong when I was 10 or 11, all of my attempts have been dessert related. I feel bad about this sometimes, especially since there is the strong stereotype of the woman being the one that cooks. Apparently it's a common saying in the Hispanic community that as soon as a girl is able to cook, she's ready to get married. Well, shame on me, since here I am getting married, and I don't cook one bit. I think I just got exceedingly lucky that Charlton not only can cook, but enjoys it very much. He also doesn't seem terribly bothered by the fact that I don't, but rather he sweetly tries to teach me little things here and there.

      I am capable of making cakes or brownies from scratch, and usually I do, but on this instance I chose to use a box mix. Brownies aren't particularly difficult to make, but the box mix does take less time. All in all, the prep time was about 7 minutes, and then there was the 24 minutes of cooking time.

     I tried to fit all of the things you need in the picture, but I forgot the shortening for greasing the pan. Also, you can't see that it is canola oil very well. (Speaking of the oil, be careful with that; in the moments that my hand was reaching for the bottle, I thought that it would possibly be greasy, and sure enough, the lid and top few inches were sticky and slick. I hate feeling oily or greasy, so I washed my hands immediately.) Personally, I used a 13X9 pan, since I like more cakey brownies that aren't super thick. The steps are pretty easy, though:

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees (for the 13X9 pan), and grease the pan in preparation. (Greasing pans is another one of my least favorite things; I washed my hands very promptly and thoroughly.) I like to get of my supplies out at the beginning so I'm not scrambling for ingredients in the middle of something else. 
2. Combine the dry mix (from the box), 1/4 cup water, 2/3 cup oil, and 2 eggs (another cause for hand washing) in a bowl. Mix thoroughly (I used a spatula to clean the edges of the bowl), but it won't be completely smooth. 
3. Pour the mix into the greased pan, and bake it for 24-26 minutes. 

     After the timer goes off, you'll want to check if it's really done or not with a toothpick. It should come out mostly clean, but not completely. (Well, the more crumbs are attached, the more squishy the brownies will be. So, it depends on how you like them, I suppose.)

     *Ice cream is optional, but highly recommended. :)

A Reflection on Blog-Journaling

3/March/2013

     I admit this assignment proved to be more difficult than I had thought, for several reasons. I was counting on my years of writing experience (and journaling experience) to make this a simple and easy, something that wouldn't take very much of my time. However, I was more self-confident than I should have been. It was much more difficult than I would have thought to pick a prompt all on my own. I've never had problems in the past writing journal responses, but in those cases, the prompt was always given to me. I turned out to be extremely picky with my prompts, wanting something more profound and philosophical than "my favorite movies". If anything, what took the most time was picking the prompt. I laughed when I read on one of the sites that Ms. A gave us for prompts: "When you utilize these free creative writing prompts , it is advised that you just start writing whatever comes into your brain. Too much thinking is what got you searching for prompts in the first place, so you might as well get rid of that crap right now :)." Who would have thought too much thinking could prove to be a detrimental thing? It was nice that I was able to share some of my previous pieces of writing, but I could only use that so many times. Then, too, it was hard to fight the tendency to just write about what happened that day, like an actual, normal journal.

     Also, my procrastination got the best of me, I fear, and caused me to have several journals left with little time, so the last few were rather sloppy and I did not get to be as choosy with the prompts as I had before. I shouldn't have written that in the passive tense; it was my fault and my fault alone that I procrastinated. There's that arrogance in my own abilities again. I really should work on that. When I wasn't stressing over how far behind I was, though, I did  have a lot of fun with this. There are a few journals that I hope others see, because I would love to get some other minds' feedback and opinions. I had forgotten a little how much I love to write.

     I never know how to end these things. Before, in class, we had a specific amount of time to write in, and if you were cut off mid-sentence even, it didn't matter. The important part was that you were writing the whole time. Now, though, I have to give these journals an actual structure, beginning, middle, and end. I found myself repeatedly reaching the end of a journal and writing something silly like, "Well, that's what I think" or "Hopefully now I can do this too". So, here I am again, at the end. Am I supposed to tie this up like an essay? Or is it acceptable that I leave it a little less formal? I think I did a little of both in my past journals, so one way or another I hope I'm covered.

How Incredible is Average?

21/Feb/2013

How Incredible is Average?

     Yet again I was watching a movie - this time The Incredibles, with my parents. Several times throughout the movie, the statement is made that if everyone's super, no one will be (or, if everyone's special, no one is). I am personally having a hard time deciding whether I agree with that or not. Surely, if everyone is blue, or if everyone has a cat, it doesn't apply in those circumstances - everyone is actually still blue. But being "super" or being "special" is a different kind of quality; it's something more than the shallow, physical attribute.
     I compare it to being gifted. What would happen if everyone was "gifted"? (I shouldn't get started on that; I could go on forever on the vague term "gifted" and what it does or does not mean, not to mention what it should or should not mean.) Since gifted is traditionally marked by an IQ score of (typically) 125 or higher, then that would simply be the average. Possibly more importantly, though, the need for the IQ range would cease to exist. No more specialized classes, no more No Child Left Behind programs. It sounds wonderful, I think.
     However, then I think about why we are different in the first place. Our IQ is such a fundamental part of who we are, that for it to be the same in everyone would be to eliminate an incredibly large range for variety. Is it worth it to not have any failures, if it means not having any above-and-beyond's either? When everyone succeeds, it doesn't mean anything. Impressive factor = 0. Right now, I'm at about 25/75, more so on the side of difference. That could just be me being selfish, though, since I fall into that category of what psychologists and specialists have deemed as special enough to be more than average. Would having this theoretically utopian world produce even more great inventions and wonders, or would it stalemate creativity and the desire to do better? What desire to do better could you have, if you already knew everyone else would do just as well? This might just be one of those that I need to step back and let it simmer for a little bit, before I can really draw a conclusion. Or, maybe there just isn't a right answer. Can average be incredible? I really don't know.

A Credo for Today

I believe in the power of self. I wanted to say it isn't like the cliché “you have the power to become all you want to become”, but it is actually. However, I meant it not quite in the sense that a person can achieve whatever goal or career they strive for, but more in an internal sense, with regards to one’s personality. You can become the person that you want to be. I believe you can be happy, you should be happy, with who you are. I believe that this means being happy with life, with your special days and your not-so-special ones too. 

Suicide is Painless

20/Feb/2013

Prompt #136 I found on a site provided by Ms. A for creative writing prompts. "Write a pure dialogue story. Make your story move along by using dialogues *only*. No narration, no description...just dialogues." Challenge accepted. (The dialogue goes back and forth between two characters, one on the left and the other on the right.)



                                                                   Suicide is Painless

Here we are, the last day. After all this time we’re
finally going to get out of this prison, both of us.
What a (sad) coincidence that it should be the same day…

                                                                           A prison? What an odd choice of words. I see it
                                                                           not as a prison but even, rather, a home.

I suppose…yes, it will be sad to leave, but even
though your bed is comfortable to you, I can’t
imagine you haven’t wanted to escape. This place
is no good. Only rotting, dying bodies that will
never make it out of here. Everything is so sad,
too sad for me.


                                                                         Are you implying me to be a rotting and dying 
                                                                         corpse? As I am the one which will never leave.
                                                                         These sheets, one way or another, will be the
                                                                         layers of my deathbed.

How do you stand this? Every single day, the white
washed walls, the cold, blank tiles, the immortal
and bitter machines. (Ugh.)

                                                                         To each its own purpose.

But! We shouldn’t be so down and depressed, for
tomorrow! Tomorrow is our day, honey. By tonight
I’ll be at my new job, and you…Well, you’ll be out
of here, too, honey, don’t worry.

                                                                       No, no! Don’t you see?? I don’t want to leave--

                                                                       please don’t make me go! You’re my only friend;
                                                                       beg someone for me, so that they won’t do this to
                                                                       me…I can’t leave.

There’s nothing anyone can do. I keep telling myself
that. I’ve tried, begged even, to talk the doctors out
of this, believe you me. But the decision is made.
                                                                                  
                                                                       No, no, no…

I am so sorry, honey. I remember the first time I
walked in here; something drew me to this room…
Our first conversation was about my first
granddaughter, born just a few days before, do you
remember? I’ll miss talking to you, I will.

                                                                       …I will miss you more than you could ever know,
                                                                       though I suppose for not as long…

You have such a gentle face. Even the scars across
your head, they make you beautiful. You know, I’ve
always imagined your voice to be kind and soft, the
sort that you know would be beautiful to listen to
sing. I hope now that you can be at peace, darling,
instead of just looking peaceful.



                                                                        I am not at peace! My voice would not be so calm
                                                                        if only I could use it. Eyes, open! Mouth, work! 
                                                                        Please, this is our last chance…I want to live.

I don’t know your name, and I won’t now, but

                                                                        I want to live.

it’s time for me to go. I guess this means I have
to say goodbye.

Word: Escape

8/Feb/2013

     What does escape look like?

I admit I was rather disappointed when I typed escape into Google images. It came up with way too many pictures of the Ford Escape SUV. I had pictured something like a bird just spreading its wings to take off in flight; endless rows of green trees before you with leaves of brown, red, and orange laying down a faint path through the wood; a door open just enough to see the blurry colors that lay beyond or a few rays of light breaking in (in an Alice in Wonderland fashion); or even an old favorite novel with a cracked, ridged spine sitting invitingly in a cozy reading space.

     What does escape smell like?

For some, the smell of salt and a cool, fresh wind blowing off the water. For others, popcorn, setting up to relax and watch a good adventure movie. Since my escape is usually less of a physical adventure and more of a mental one, my escape smells like a book; not when you first open the cover and it is a little musty and possibly needs a dusting, but after I've curled up with a blanket and coffee, and can smell the smells of the scene. If it's Frankenstein, then it varies between burnt flesh and pine woods. In The Poisonwood Bible, there's the heat rising from the scorched earth. If I pause reading, and I'm sitting outside on my porch railing, leaning against the corner post, then I can raise my head and close my eyes and bring the real-world scents into my imagination.

     What does escape feel like?

Like every weight, every pain, every stress, and every worry has been lifted off and escaped itself. Like flight is possible. Like safety; not in a little hiding place that could still be found out and destroyed, but the ability to walk tall wherever your feet carry you and absorb every moment. Like breathing deeply, slowly, the freshest air. Like focusing inward and noticing the slightest heartbeat at the places where your skin is thin, the blush of warmth from your core out to every hair and fingertip and toe, and knowing you are alive.