secondary rationalization

2008-03-19T02:04:00.000-07:00

Family portraits. A window through time with the all the cues of a dysfunctional family.

What family wouldn't be complete without their cheesy family portrait placed in the living room? Denim jeans, white button down shirts - or - maybe color themed rather than denim themed. This is what I see from the samples of family portraits from the photographer my family will use to get their picture taken. Head shots, sitting on the ground, mom in the middle, dad with the hand on the shoulder - everyone around mom. So...family-centric. So weird.

I realized a couple of weeks ago that my two sisters and I have hardly more than five pictures together. In fact, I can only think of one picture that has us all together in a portrait type setting and it is hysterical to think of. Setting: Dayton Air Force Museum Date: Early 90's. My sisters and I are sitting on a bench/couch in the waiting area. Erin, the oldest, is looking at the camera with a face full of hatred and annoyance. Me, the middle child, is in the middle slumped into a position looking exhausted with my B-52 bomber baseball hat pulled down over my entire face, and the youngest, Alice, looking content and unsure of what's going on around her. I wish I had a copy of the picture here in Deutschland. THE POINT- we don't have a family picture or sister portrait...but we have this. I think it is as good as any. Even the best of photographers can't erase the faces, gestures, and tension that is shown in family photos. And if there IS such a picture that exists...denim clad individuals with their white button down shirts, I'm pretty this family if full of pod people - either that or they are so repressed with everything they do that it's a joke.

Case in point...Sebastian's family photo proudly displayed at his Grandma's house. Setting: Photography studio. Time: Early 90's. Set up: Mom holding the youngest (Sebastian), the oldest son (Dennis) sitting slightly higher than Sebastian, and Dad above them all... This is a pretty normal seating position that photographers like to arange families in. I guess the only difference in the pictures, other than the people in the pictures, is the expressions and events that are captured by the camera lens:

First. All eyes focus on a young Dennis...hands on knees but obviously not enjoying his time there. Expression on his face: priceless...full of annoyance and I can only IMAGINE how annoyed his parents were to get him to sit there and take the picture. This is coupled by the image of Dad, Herr Kalupa, sitting in a way behind Dennis that looked like he either just popped up to say 'Smile at the damn camera' or he is grabbing Dennis from behind to make him straighten up for sure.

Second. Young Sebastian is in the picture...looking clueless about what exactly is going on. All while his mother sits there with a wide eyed hoping that the picture comes out like the picture she has in her head.

All this adds up to the normal family dysfunction that can be seen in family pictures. All in all, I love it because it makes me guess as to how that day actually went down. Furthermore...although Sebastian was young, I asked him if he could remember that day....he could...and although I wasn't there...I laughed with him like I was there...all because what was captured by the camera is the perfect representation of how his family is.

2008-03-12T03:13:00.001-07:00

Living with people is hard. Living with people that don't speak English is even harder.

My record with roommates:

First year at Kent: unsteady at first...some bumps in the road - but who doesn't have a issues ONCE in a while when living in one room with another girl. All in all, my first roommate experience was good.

Second year at Kent: (first semester)She was hardly there, I actually liked here. So all in all - it was good. (second semester) She was a crazy fucking bitch who didn't have a descent bone in her horse face body.

Third year at Leicester: I lived in my own room. The girls next to me were only loud when they were drunk.

Fourth year at Kent: This was a GREAT roommate experience. I even would go so far as to say I miss it. I don't miss the spats between me and Kelly about cleaning, but that was only about 4 times in all. My apartment with Kelly was my first home away from home and it felt good to have.

London: The place was a hell-hole. Though I had my own personal space, just because the Hawkridge (the housing from hell) seemed to warrant hatred towards whomever I would have lived with. I guess that's just how council estates go.

This brings us to Hannover! Which was the whole point of this blog posting in the first place.

Ok - So living with Harsi is great. He's not a problem at all and we get along with hardly any upsets (mostly just me being emotional). But our other roommate...that's a completely different story. I don't know if me, my English tongue, or if I have a some sort of bitchiness that comes off although I don't mean it. But I swear he hates me with a certain passion you can't have for another person. It's not even a GOOD hatred. It's the kind of hate that completely disregards a person from your life. Granted that I don't speak very good German, I should still get talked to (instead of channeling questions through Harsi).

My non-existance in the life of the other German(s) -he has a girlfriend who's over all the time- I live with is something that really bothers me. I suppose it would bother anyone who's trying to immerse into a culture that's language is hard as hell to learn - but I'm not finding anyway to combat it. THEREFORE I must accept this. How to do this in my own style:

I plan to act as ridiculous as possible around him. Say random things (yes, he knows English - it's not like we can't interchange in English if needed), strange twitches are very possible, and I'm considering blurting out random sounds like "MMRRPHH".

TODAY for instance, I was in the kitchen with Harsi and said roommate walks in and only talks to Harsi, only looks at Harsi, only addresses Harsi. So behind him I'm doing a little shimmy dance, looking like a moron. He DID happen to turn around and look at me but only because Harsi was laughing and looking at me while listening to him talk. Silence and annoyance emerged from the eyes, face, and aura of our roommate.

I feel that one reaction is better than no reaction.

MMMRRRRMMMPPHHHH!

2008-02-18T02:07:00.000-08:00

So here I go again. This is my umptenth time attempting to write a blog with hopes that I'll "keep it up" (and I never do). But, I've never been good at keeping a diary - so I don't know why I thought this would be any better. I think that I still have diaries from when I was 10 years old that are only composed of the first 8th of the book. So it goes.

Now in Hannover, Deutschland - I'm facing a crazy time. New job, new language, new location. It's all very strange. I have likened myself to a small child that understands complex items. This of course, is only because I have yet to learn to speak German, but on occasion I impress everyone by being able to understand what was said to me. So basically - I am a mute here.

I keep thinking that I am never going to understand this horrendous language of the German peoples, only because day in and day out I feel left behind by this German world around me. However, I'm trying to stay positive and rationalize that I am learning more and more each day - but without the knowledge that I am doing so. I can say, as I look into the past, that I have learned a LARGE amount of German and am doing well for never really having any studies in the language. So one thing sticks out in my mind - PROGRESS!

I give myself 2 years to become fluent. If I'm not fluent in this time I'm going hardcore and enrolling in University (again) and immersing myself into the scholastic community (again). What should I do though - another masters? or another bachelors?

2007-08-05T02:41:00.000-07:00

I met with my friend Danelle the other day for lunch. And with her it is the usual shenanigans. I don't know why crazy things always happen when we're together...maybe the forces of nature comes together like a fantasma of Captain Planet nostalgia, but things always happen.

I meet Danelle at her office and we set out to get Chinese food. Now, first off I don't know why decided to get some shitty over-priced Chinese food (which at 3.50 is probably some of the cheapest Chinese food to get...I'm told) because I made a sandwich and took an apple. Oh well...my mind fickle. I didn't know that it was just a stand on the side of the street. So we get our Chinese food, get a Coke, and now we're going to have some lunch. Or are we......

Danelle is wearing a skirt this day and we can't do the usual squat and eat, so we head off to a park that she knows is nearby. Which is fine by me, I don't really care as long as I can sit somewhere before I head to a corner of the library for the rest of the day. So we walked through and alley that smelt of urine and avoided the rest of the lunchers running to get their egg mayonaise sandwiches and made it to the park.

I took off the rectangular white cardboard lid and laid it face up on the cement directly behind me and begin my feast of a lunch. All is going well, it's a nice day (e.g. not raining) and we're chatting with the usual complaints (I hate UCL, that guy has weird hair, maybe when I grow up I can be an astronaut. etc). When the guy that cleans the park takes my lid. The whole scene was in slow motion. He had an extended stick with a claw on the end of it that you find in those "As seen on TV" stores, and he slyly stuck it behind me and took my lid. In my mind I was going NNNNOOOOOOOooooooooooooooo. Which ended in an auditory (to Danelle).

"That bastard took my lid. I don't want to eat all of this. Now I can't save what I don't eat."

What do I get to console me? Laughed at.

Continuing our chat Danelle gets up to throw something away and sets her Chinese where she was sitting. I wasn't paying attention to anything but the stupid pigeons and their fluff and wondering if I was going to get the bird flu from it. Almost gagging from my neuroses Danelle comes back looking disgusted.

In the calmest and most rational voice staring straight ahead, "The birds just ate my lunch. Tegan, I am disgusted. I can't eat this now. The birds ate my lunch." Laughing hysterically as she throws most of her 3.50 away she comes back and yells, "WHAT IS THAT!" I of course have no idea what she's talking about turn my head from side to side like a cartoon. What was it? Bird crap. I bird crapped on my sweater, on my bag, and in my hair. Disgusting. I hate pigeons. And after this what did I have to look forward to? The library.

In short, pigeons are rats with wings.

2007-05-06T04:13:00.000-07:00

I have never been good at keeping a journal. I have never been good at having a routine and a set time to do things, and to go with that I've never been able to keep up communication via the internet, i.e. keeping an up to date blog like my friend Pieter Reeve is just a ridiculous notion and unrealistic. So my method now is to do it when I feel like it, or when something comes up.

Something has come up.

About a month ago, and I can't believe it's been a month ago, I set off to see Harsi in Germany. Good Ole Duetschland. Being the sweet boyfriend that he is, and being the appropriate time that it was, an Easter card from him to me was sent via the post (yes the post, that weird service that isn't the internet). Well, thanks to Hawkridge's excellent service there was no one on duty to collect the mail while the hardworking people in the Hawkridge took their much needed 3 week long vacation from their grueling laborious job. In this time, God knows what happened. Sinks clogged, lifts stopped working, heaters were stuck in the on position, toilets won't flush and of course, the mail doesn't get collected. If half of the building fell off and sunk to the ground nothing would be done about it during the employees vacations because, DAMMIT, they need their rest. So anyway. What's my point. The point is the mail.

Back to the card that Harsi sent me. He sent it to me before Easter so I would get it for Easter, but alas I didn't receive it until my arrival at Hawkridge with him where I could finally pick it up (because they came back from their vacation 2 days after I left for Duetschland). The card was very sweet but that's not the point of this.

I noticed on the piercing blue envelope that there was no postage. No postage? I do say, how did it come to be delivered without the sufficient funds for the postal service? Well, Occam's Razor, of course it had postage or it wouldn't have been delivered. So the next reason....someone stole the postage stamps off of my letter! Who would do such a thing. It was in my pigeon hole for 2 weeks before I could get it. Also, some time ago, after Christmas, there was a ridiculous note written on someone's letter from someone living at Hawkridge that had to some effect "I collect stamps and if you aren't using them I would like to have them". This is the bastard that stole my postage. I am certain of it.

I can only think of scenarios that allow me to accuse this person to their face.

1) I take the envelope down to the mail room. Scratch out my name and write a note that demands someone to come forward to confess that they have stolen my postage.

----not very effective when I think about it----

2) I make a sign that says, "I am leaving Hawkridge and I have collected throughout my stay letters with postage from different countries. I know that someone living here is an avid stamp collector and if they meet me at such and such a time I will give them my stamps."

Of course this is just a plot to make the THIEF come forward and for me to ask him, "WHY DID YOU TAMPER WITH MY MAIL YOU WHORE? WHO STEALS STAMPS OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE'S ENVELOPES? I DEMAND my Duetschland stamps back"

-----This won't actually take place. But the scenario makes me laugh. But really? Who steals other peoples stamps? And furthermore...who looks through other people's pigeon holes in the hope of finding post from different countries? Answer: Losers.

2006-11-05T15:19:00.000-08:00

Some things that I've decided by living in England.

1) If you are a girl, you are dumb.
2) If you are an american girl you are dumb.
3) An amendment to number one, you can be a girl and not be dumb but you have to wear glasses and be stupid.
4) If you are a girl and only speak English, you are dumb.

Protocol in order to be taken seriously.

1) You are a producer on the History Channel
2) You do not qualify to any of the four items mentioned in the above list.
3) You are a historian.
4) You are german.
5) You kind of know 4 languages.

Basically, I should eat shit and die and get out of the scholarly community.

And yes, I am surly.

2006-11-01T06:43:00.000-08:00

I was looking at my posts that I have drafted but haven't put up. There's this one where I got the idea of connections between people and wondering if the workings of the universe was responsible for why people meet. Although you part ways and you think that you'll never meet again, but in actuality you will meet again because of these connections. Logically it kind of makes sense. You meet certain people, however random it may be, because usually there is some sort of commonality that's involved: you like the same music and atmosphere so you frequent the same pub/bar/club, you take up a similar studies so passing each other in the library isn't far fetched, etc etc. So through this, my thinking evolved into, we've met randomly on the basis that we have such and such a thing in common therefore it's possible that doing this common thing will enable us to meet again.

Looking back at this optimistic attitude towards meeting people and then parting ways, I now just think, "That's bullocks". How many people have I met at camp 8 years ago, and now have no idea what their names are? 10-20? To even go so far as, how many people did I meet in my year abroad that now have no desire to talk to me now (not that there's no desire there...just that there's no point really)? 10-20, again? Right away that's like 20-40 people who I'm sure I'll never see again.

From optimism to pessimism. But more importantly, from unrealistic to realistic.

2006-07-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

Small clouds dotted the calm blue of the sky above me as I sat on a park bench at the corner of Main and Water in Kent, Ohio. Noon - ugh. I still have half hour until they show up, and that is only if they are on time. What else is there to do but sit and enjoy the day and reflect upon the events that had happened to me on the weekend. Perhaps though, the most annoying part of waiting is knowing that I am waiting. With my iPod in my ears playing my Paris cafe album, I glance at my purse and realize that I probably have something in my bag to keep me occupied for the time being. Jackpot. Pen, paper, music, scenery. Reaching into the depths of the artistic part of my brain for any remembrance of my classes from life drawing I begin sketching the only scene that might be appealing, as well as easy to draw. The lamp post and the tree behind it seem easily at my disposal and simple to draw. Easy enough. -ten minutes later and I think... This looks like shite. I respect artists now that I see I cannot meet my standards of a light post. It is basically just a straight line with a rectangle thing on the top... Screw it. Nothing ever turns out the way I envision it in my mind, this is just another example. Oh well...I might as well draw some more leaves on the tree though. Solo, listening to French music, and trying to draw on a bright green almost day-glo post-it, a curious looking man, obviously a traveler, cuts across the lawn in front of me. Over the romantic slurs of the French language I hear a grumble and look up to see this mysterious man's mouth moving.

"Pardon?"

"Beautiful day isn't it."

"It certainly is. And how are you on this gorgeous day?"

Suddenly the traveler starts asking my questions in different languages asking if I speak German, French, or Dutch. After establishing that, no, I was not a foreigner but originally from Ohio, the traveler seems intrigued that I could have an "accent" and was raised not but an hour from Kent.

The traveler sits down on a rock opposite of me and greets me with a warm semi-toothless smile. It is apparent that he was either a hitchhiker or homeless. Regardless of which, it was his smile that was endearing and welcoming. It was the type of smile that should have been rewarded with a cold beverage, but with fifty cents in my pocket I was upset that I could not give my fellow man something cold to drink on such a hot day. Despite this setback in my mind we converse briefly. I find out that he has been hitchhiking from Arizona and came back to Ohio because not only is the Kent area where he is originally from, but it is warm and a pleasant place to be in the summer.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name. Mine is Tegan."

"Hello, my name is Joel."

"It's a pleasure."

Extending my right hand to shake his, I take extra care to examine the condition of his hand. I find that the hands of an individual tell a person about whomever they belong to. Joel's hands are hard and rough. Tanned and slightly dirtied. I think that it is probably not unlikely that he has used his hands to do the occasional odd job for a small sum of money to get by.

After listening to his stories of being adopted by Native Tribes in the west, and his journeys throughout the USA (disincluding the East Coast because as Joel would say it, "They're all stuck up over there"). I realize that although this man may not have what I have, that I envy him. I envy him because he lives for himself and he lives for things such as a cool breeze, or a cold drink on a hot day, the smile of a passer-by, and the feeling of cutting loose on his own terms. Sitting across from him and imagining his lifestyle compared to mine, I start drifting away from the idea that I had a terrible week; it could have been worse.

Joel was enlightening. Unlike Joel, I am too dependent on others at times and this is something I do not enjoy being as it causes me extra grief in my life. Another item to reflect on was the way he moves on with his life. This is especially symbolic to me, and certainly relevant on this particular day. Moving on and leaving Kent was something I needed to face up to. I am almost positive that Joel has met people that he has only seen and met once in his life, much like his encounter with. But what should be remembered is the time spent with that person, not what could have been spent with that person. Most important though, was the feeling that there are those in the world that still like to sit down and converse with strangers, even on the most irrelevant topic.

Although I will probably never see Joel again in my life I like to think that our paths will cross again someday. Perhaps I will even see him walking on the side of the road with his thumb out so I can pick him up and give him that long overdue beverage. Regardless, this small moment in time allows me to reflect on what is possible. Whether it is hitchhiking from Arizona to Ohio or just getting through the half hour.

Glancing at my watch the half hour has passed.

"Well, it's 12:30 and I have to meet my friends. They're probably waiting for me."

"Yeah, I was going to go see my lawyer friend who picked me up and brought me into Kent."

"It was lovely to have met you Joel. I wish you the best in your travels."

"Thank you. You're a pretty lady. I hope you get where you need to go."

***

It's always the small moments I remember and the smallest of gestures I take away. Taking the path I want is not always an option, but the random meaningful and enlightening events along the way are worth it.

2006-06-29T15:19:00.000-07:00

Jobs suck and so do you.

2006-06-19T21:23:00.000-07:00

Multiple combinations of emotions are scurrying through my body at the moment. Lately I am lost in myself. Whoa as me....

This is not supposed to be pity time. For me, it is more of a reflecting time. Knowing myself, probably better than most I might say, reflection is usually dabbled with in not so good times for my self.

This past weekend while walking around Kent with my good friend Beth we arrived upon a sort of fellow, who although should not a role modeal, is a role model. I have never known or even heard of the artist Vince until this day, and our random encounter has made me think about ways in which different people live their lives.

There was nothing remarkable about Vince, to say the least. He was a scrawny guy who is in his late thirties. He is unkept, odd, and not entirely attractive - at all. But his stories of moving, or working, of not having any money but managing to live off the land sounded so great. So with the flow. So magnificent. I still struggle to go with the flow and to see an individual go at it with such ease was refreshing.

What I struggle with is not being able to be on my own. I hate it. What I tell myself on a day to day basis is that I am a natural loner. When deep down...I really do need something of substance in my life - platonic or not.

I am still in the process of trying to go with the flow. But lordy lordy, the emotions take a toll.

2006-05-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

I'm 21. I'm 21 and looking at the bottleneck of my future. Graduated from college, living out life as a bum right now, and awaiting a summer of living in my parents' house with a scum-paying job. Sounds depressing? On the contrary, sounds normal.

I keep making excuses for myself like, I don't know where I'm going to be in a year, I have to obtain this in order to be something, yada yada yada. All this to justify my uncertainty. But, who is certain about things? Even if I wasn't planning on continuing my education I still wouldn't know what to do. [for purposes of making hypothetical situations simpler, insert previous paragraph here]

As it is though, I have found myself in the past always making plans. Even things that are as simple as dinner tomorrow night - I plan. Well...here is a resolution for me. My last and final plan. [no more plans] I'm PLUM sick of them and they never work out.

The pessimistic attitude of this is not intentional. I do however think that although this may indeed sound pessimistic that some sort of optimism may come out of it. The idea of leaving behind an old self and reinventing a new one is, although quite a cliche, refreshing for me.

Smell the roses, they're beautiful.