Movies

You know, movie nights are fun. The family sits down and watches a movie--it's great! Or a group of friends get together to watch something or go to a theatre and watch something--so much fun!

But what if that's it?

When meetings with friends are always movie-based, how much talking actually occurs? How much catching up can happen in a movie-watching setting? How well do you actually know that person sitting in front of the same screen? The friendship had to start somewhere--presumably not in front of a movie screen--so some knowledge of that person must be present. There must be some level on which one knows one's friend better than one knows any other person in the theatre.... But is that simply because their name is not unknown?

It just feels like the easy way. As though when people know a friendship is doomed to end, they start watching movies. If two people don't talk, they can't really fight. I know of no friendships that ended during a movie, only those that ended during a face-to-face conversation or, as seems more and more common these days, an online one.

I feel certain that the friendship is fine; we do have coffee together every rare occassion or so--though never one-on-one. Honestly, our personalities are too close to correctly mesh. Or maybe it is just me. Who knows. Maybe one-on-one coffee would be great. Or maybe it would all end.

I'm good with watching movies.

John Williams

There's a side of me that nearly no one knows.

Though my love of listening to and playing music is no secret, the fact that I have to literally resist the urge to dance at times (and often fail when with my younger brothers--always when I am alone) is little known. I can't dance very well. I'm self-taught, and never had anyone really to look up to who wasn't so beyond my capablities that I could actually manage to mimick. But I do it anyway. I bounce, I kick, I waltz alone. I've imagined having someone there as a dance partner, but my hopes for success in this area are not high. No, I think I will always be alone. But when I'm in a good mood, I'll walk down the street, music flowing through me, just burning to burst out singing and dancing. Whether singing, dancing, acting, or playing in the pit orchestra, I would love to be part of a production.

My joy in writing and drawing is well known, but my true desire to be published or to make a film is kept hidden. Perhaps it is my fear of failure that holds me back... no, it is definately my fear of failure that holds me back. Usually someone else comes up with the same basic plot idea. Obviously the details are not the same, but the general concept is there. Sometimes I even prefer the new version's story. I spend hours mulling ideas over in my head. I'll sit, music playing, staring blankly at a white sheet of paper, waiting for the image to come forward. Usually the image ends of being too many to draw. I'll walk down the sidewalk, talking to myself, looking absolutely nuts, having conversations between characters. Usually I can never get the words just right when I've finally reached paper. Oh how I would love to be a writer or a director.

Most of my hobbies and dreams are impossibilities now. Perhaps if I had begun early enough in life, I could have accomplished them. The thing is, until at least middle school I wanted to be an OBGYN (or "baby doctor," as I spent the majority of my life calling it). Everything was about becoming a doctor--well, sort of...it was more about loving kids. It wasn't until I discovered John Williams in 7th grade that things really began to change.

John Williams is my first love (musically, obviously). Sure, I've discovered plenty of fantastic composers since then, and yes, some of them will show up Williams, but I will always love John Williams. I have this crazy idea that maybe, just maybe, if I meet him I will suddenly have the strength to be what I really want to be.

If only I knew what that was.

Sam's Birthday Wish

My birthday was last week. Altogether it was a somewhat quiet day. No one at school knows it my birthday anymore--besides my roommate. I could announce it to the world on facebook, but that seems rather silly, I feel. Then I just get a bunch of birthday wishes from a bunch of people who don't actually care a nickel. It does mean, however, that a good portion of my friends completely forget. Being used to getting a message that tells when everyone's birthday is now, I guess my colleagues don't bother the time to try and remember on their own. This story requires two introductions, so bear with me a moment--I will try to be brief. First introduction is Katie. I've known Katie for six years now. We share a birthday. She hasn't spoken to me since November because she's kind of crazy Christian for a liberal. Katie has her birthday posted on facebook, so she gets more than the bulk of birthday wishes when the day rolls around. This is something with which I have no problem. I honestly don't mind being forgotten. Second introduction is Sam. I've known Sam for four years. He's very forgetful for things that aren't academic related (aka: most things social, and just about everything me... just about). So on my birthday, I had decided to make myself a cake. Though my roommate insisted that this had to be done by someone other than myself, I talked her down by explaining it was something I had done for some time now and that I love baking--especially cakes (frosting cakes is a wonderful therapy... try it!). I had accidentally put too much butter in the frosting and had needed to bump it to a double batch. I grabbed the pot I had rented from the front desk, poured the necessary milk in and dropped in the two tablespoons of flour. Then, aware that a family member could call while I sat in the kitchen stirring my strange concoction, I went on a search for my phone... only to hear it ring just a turned to begin. I picked up the phone, glancing at the ID on the front. Sam. Sam had apparently seem that it was Katie's birthday. Seeing this, he posted the standard birthday wish on her wall and then "felt something was missing." He said he was 1/365 chance of getting it right, though I doubt he didn't check somehow before he called. I'm not sure how he verified it. At first I thought he checked my facebook page and saw my skimpy number of wishes. If that were the case though, I am compelled to believe he would have simply written on my 'wall.' I don't know. Either way, he pretty much single-handedly made my day. Mind you, it doesn't take much to make my day. For example, the discovery that Wayne State University not only has a Masters program for Criminal Justice, but also that one can apply with ANY Bachelor's degree. That had me literally bouncing about the room. I'm not sure why, entirely, it made my day though. True, he and I hadn't talked in a while, and I tend to get extremely pessimistic in those situations. True, I do consider him my best friend but worry he feels differently. I don't know. But it was a wonderful birthday wish, and I was oh so glad he called.

My Future Now

I got out of the car, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and, with a grin larger than a sideways moon, walked towards the airport.
“Maggie!” I heard my mother’s voice.
I had completely forgotten to say goodbye. I turned back to her, and did a slight skip back towards her.
She gave me a hug and a kiss, “Give me a call when you get there... and when you get into the apartment... and be sure to keep me updated on the job. And—”
“Mom, relax,” I smiled. “I’ll call you.”
She hugged me again. She seemed to not want to let go.
I pulled myself away, went up to the airport door, and waved back to her one more time.

I had been planning this day for two and a half years. I was excited more than nervouse--though there is not denying the nervousness. It was the first time I was living anywhere without the guise of my parents. All through college I had lived in the dorms, so apartment living was a whole new adventure for me.
I picked up my pace, breezing through security as I always did. On the other side, I bought myself a smoothie and sat anxiously at the gate.

The plane finally arrived, we finally boarded, and it finally took off. I'm pretty sure my smile didn't fade for the whole of the flight--which was only an hour, but still.
After the hour came to it's long awaited end, the plane descended into the airport. I grinned my thank you to the pilots and stewardesses as I stepped off the plane.

I walked briskly through the airport, taking in everything in flashes of sensory activation. The smell, the light, the sounds, everything. I walked out of the airport, the cool new-fall air hitting my face cooly. I took a deep breath. Never would I forget this day. Everyone around me seemed a bit confused as to why I was so happy to be here. Fools.

I let my grin loose yet again and stepped out into my future now arrived.

A Leap of Faith

I respect your decision. That said, if you could humor me yet another time, I would like to express a view on this whole situation.

I understand that you are not yet ready for this, and honestly, I'm not either. The thing is, if we wait until we're both ready, it will never happen. I think readiness could only actually occur if we saw each other every now and then in a non-meeting context. This really won't occur now that we're both in college (unless we run into each other at church, which is also pretty unlikely).

My point is that this is a leap of faith. Though, honestly it's not much of a leap. It's more of a sit-at-the-edge-of-the-pool-and-test-the-water-temperature.

I'm sure you have been told this, but I'm not looking for you to be my friend per se. I want us to be able to be civil (not that we aren't), and have a conversation if necessary. I want us to be able to be in the same room without an elephant sitting in the room too. I don't want our friends to have to worry about us coming into contact... especially since I broke down last time we almost did.

I'd also like to hope that this benefits us both. I would like to believe that my childhood mistakes won't haunt me forever. As a psychologist, I imagine you would like to believe that people truly can change. I think we should give this a whirl. Worst case scenario, it's bad and we go back to our non-inclusive college-student lives, we're back were we started, which is pretty much where we are.

It's a leap of faith, and I'd like you to leap with me.

March

I woke up this morning, still tired, but remarkably happy. I walked to class with the slightest skip in my step. I sat in class completely absent from negative thoughts. I left class and walked out into the mildly cold, somewhat windy shine of March and grinned.

I love March.

I love the smell of March, and the feel of March. There's a sort of softeness that hangs in the air. A few days are bright and sunny and a few others are so dark and wet you spend the day trying to convince yourself it isn't night. The weather is cool enough to wear a sweater if you want, but not so cold as to require it. You can get away with a spring coat on most days as well.

I've heard people say that March is their least favorite month. It's the in-between of winter and spring. Most of the days are shades of grey. Even on clear days the sky often doesn't show quite so blue as it does during the other eleven months of the year. The earth is still fairly brown because the plants have not yet had enough time to truly begin to grow. And what is worst of all, to most, is the chance that it will once again snow--it is, after all, still winter for the majority of the month.

And that is what makes it so wonderful.

Anything can happen in March.

March is about spirit. In all honesty, I think everyone knows that, as far as spirit is concerned, no other month can even dream about the green-ness that March has in spirit. Saint Patrick's Day is, after all, one of the best holidays of the year. It's certainly one of my favorites. And the grey in the sky and the brown on the earth only make the greens that do shine through that much greener.

So what?!

Prom was nearly two years ago now and you think I need to talk about it? I think there were several events that should have clued you into the fact that I didn't need you to have fun. I mean, come on! I went with one of my best girlfriends (win), and spent the whole night with a bunch of other girls who are totally awesome (like me) and weren't asked to prom because guys are lame (like you). Am I bitter? I know I sound it, but no. I'm not. I am more than happy to defend you to my parents and sisters, but I will not defend you to me. Mostly because I have wonderful memories of prom, and I can't deny that most of those moments were due to the fact that I was bitter and therefore determined to have ridiculous amounts of fun. Totally worked, by the way. After all, what is more fun than singing Pink's 'So What' at the guy who refused to ask you to the dance?

Blur

Time is a blur. A day can seem like a year and a month can seem like a week. I woke up this morning and I realized it was almost March. I don't remember February. Wasn't Valentine's Day just this past Monday? I need time to take a break. I need life to slow down.

I spent the majority of the past week not studying for exams. I listened to music. I stared at a story sitting on my computer screen, my fingers resting on the keys--as though I expected them to type without any brain involvement. I read Jurassic Park. I sat on the Michael Crichton website for at least an hour, reading essays he had written, reading things he had said about his books, wishing I had all of the books with me rather than just the five I brought from home, wishing Pirate Latitudes weren't the last.
I compiled a list of "take that!" songs dedicated to a friend of mine who dumped me before we started dating nearly two years ago (worst Saint Patrick's Day ever).
I designed a study for a class, fully aware that it most likely it will never be used.
I talked to two of my friends from high school and managed to get angry with both of them.

I spent the majority of the past week running away from my current reality.

I don't know how to tell my parents that I'm different... irreparably. I don't know that I'm even afraid they won't accept me. That would be surprisingly uncharacteristic of them. I've been practicing on people, a few. It only turned out badly once, and I don't know that it was entirely to blame for that falling out.

I feel broken.

An angel ornament fell off of my little Christmas tree into my printer. I now have to have at least 15 pages in the printer, otherwise the pages get stuck on the angel that I cannot remove. First I tried to take it as a sign that I shouldn't be a psychology major. I get the feeling now that if it means anything, anything at all, it means this. But that's probably because I feel broken. Like something is jammed. Like something is preventing me from functioning properly. The strange thing:
I don't think I want to function properly.

A New Idea- input would be awesome

He moved somewhat slowly through the silent town. An eerie, almost not present song floated through the haunted air. He walked towards the saloon, the song growing slightly larger. He reached the half-hinged swing double door, looking into the saloon. The building was silent now but for the piano player—presumably. He pushed the doors open silently and walked into the large wooden room. He looked over at the piano. The regular piano player had been replaced by a young woman. She had a slim figure dressed in a simple patterned cloth. Her hair was hidden by a straw-woven bonnet. Her slender fingers moved gently over the ivory keys as she played the soft, quiet music—music not usually heard in the saloon.

A floor board creaked as his foot came down upon it. The next movements happened in just a moment. The young woman stopped playing and spun to face the sheriff, a handgun held out before her; the sheriff unsheathed his gun and held it steadily, ready to fire, at any moment, hot rounded metal into the piano-player’s forehead. They stood in silence, guns pointed.

“Put it down,” he said sternly, his gaze fixed on hers. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but if you make it necessary, I will kill you.”

“You really think I wouldn’t be able to put this bullet in your head before you even knew I’d pulled the trigger? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow you away.”

“I’m a sharper shot than you, faster too.”

Her eyes flickered down from his, examining the strange man’s clothing. Her eyes widened as they came to rest on the golden badge fixed upon his black leather belt. Her mouth formed words but no sounds erupted. Her hands began to shake. She dropped the gun to the floor, her eyes still fixated on the badge.

He put his pistol back into its holster. “I really am sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to frighten you. I heard the music and—” he stopped.

The young woman continued to stare, her eyes transfixed in a constant gaze of terror, flipping between his pistol, his badge, his face, and back to the badge once more.

“What’s your name, Miss?” he asked, trying to break her stare.

“Azalea Jameson,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“Azalea,” he smiled. “That’s a lovely name. I’m Sheriff Nash.”

She did not respond.

“Miss Jameson, I really did not mean to frighten you. I don’t have you at gun point anymore,” he raised his hands. “And you don’t have a pistol either, so I’ve no reason to harm you. But you are still acting scared.”

Again she was silent.

“I should be going. It was a great pleasure meeting you, Miss Jameson,” he said, tipping his hat and heading back towards the saloon doors.

“Oh, Little Jimmy, you aren’t going to stop there, now are you?” a smooth voice entered the conversation.

Nash turned slowly. Standing at the bottom of the back staircase was a stunning woman. She had bright red hair that swirled down in soft curls over her bare shoulders. She wore a corseted satin gown that ruffled in the skirt.

Nash looked from Azalea to the woman at the stairs. “She isn’t—” he paused, a look of disgusted disbelief on her fault.

“No, no, no, Jimmy,” the woman said walking towards the sheriff swinging her hips seductively. “But come now, Jimmy. You know you wish she were.”

“Goodbye, Sally,” Nash said sharply. He tipped his hat to Azalea and left the saloon.

Damage

I love police shows. There's no reason to deny it, so I won't. I find the law interesting, and law enforcement even more so. Perhaps it's my mild fear of authority that spurs most of my interest, or perhaps it is something completely different. Either way, it's something I want to do--something I want to follow: psychology can lead to some interesting places.

I've been noticing more and more that Americans, or at least Hollywood, seem to have a very incorrect view of the criminal justice system. If any of you watch police shows, you'll notice that a lot of the confessions they get wouldn't be worth a dime in real court due to how they were obtained. My favorite new example of this arose in a new show: Detroit 1-8-7.

Detroit 1-8-7, I feel, has a lot of potential (unless they destroy it in the next few episodes, which I'm afraid seems somewhat likely at this point).

TANGENT! There are lines for every show and every character on every show. The writers of these stories don't seem to realize this. Every show wants their bad-boy character, and they take all sorts of strange routes to get one. Sometimes they succeed, other times... well, they try really hard. Detroit 1-8-7 was failing on the bad-boy front, and they over-compensated.
Back to the original point.

The episode story pertained to a crime regarding a vetran whose son had been murdered and his murder was attempted... I think that made sense. Suffering from severe amnesia due to a blow in the head, the soldier would not have been able to identify the two men who the police were sure were at fault for the crime. So what did the police do? Well, they told the two men that they could either plead guilty or they could go in for a line-up (obviously without informing them of the amnesia). If they chose the line-up, the prosecution would go for the death penalty. WAIT! They were threatening the suspect to get a confession!? And Michigan doesn't even have the death penalty!

Now there are plenty of reasonable explainations as to why this would not result in a false confession, but there is no way to explain that there was no option besides threating the suspects. Threatening to get a confession is one of those things that can get a case overthrown.

Perhaps there's a reason a lot of police show story-lines end before they reach the courtroom.

Something Wrong

I was considering transferring schools--my current school doesn't have my major.



I asked a professional what I should do; he was a professional in what I want to do. He told me the major didn't influence the liklihood of my getting a particular postion: I should study what interests me.



My thought? Oh good! I can settle for the major I'm going for now, not transfer, and keep my family happy!



Is there something wrong with me? Doesn't "study what interests you" mean major in what you want to major? Apparently in my head it means something more along the lines of: you don't NEED that major, so why risk upsetting a family member when you could just full-knowingly upset yourself? I guess there's not as much risk involved in that decision. I do, afterall, know how I'll respond better than I do my father.



I have one friend who continually tells me that I should ignore what my family wants because it's my life. I have another friends who continually reminds me that I am currently attending the "better school" and would thus have more opportunities coming out of this school than the one to which I would transfer. This coming from an Ivy Leaguer.

The Response

You know, I had the perfect begging response to this all planned out, but I've changed my mind. I don't want to play this game with you--I've played it more times already than most people play it in their whole lives. I refuse to beg; I refuse to accept your criticism. If you don't like who I am, deal with it. If you want to ignore all of the times I have talked to you because I am over-flowing with joy, so be it. If you want to deny that maybe you had a hand in this, go ahead. I was told that in these situations I should treat the recipient like a child, but I will not. You're not a child; I will not bow to your every whim; I will not apologize for figuring myself out; I will not apologize for failing to wear a happy mask every time we speak; I will not apologize for showing you what you were signing up for when you dared to sit next to me on that bus so many years ago, when you dared to call me friend. If you want to cut and run because you've finally noticed that I'm a pessimist, I'll just let you know that this semester was better than the last, both of which were better than freshman year of high school (when you first met me, remember?), and let you walk away. I want you to know that this is on you now. I refuse to feel bad about this.

I refuse to beg.

Rhetoric

There has been much talk recently in the media and between politicians about rhetoric. There has been some pointing fingers, some denial, and just about everything that comes in between.

I feel this has been handled incorrectly. I don't care who it is, but someone, anyone, should come forward and admit that they have used inflammatory language. Doing so does not claim responsibility for the tragedy in Arizona, yet that seems to be how it is seen at the moment. There is no doubt that the language used in politics today is highly inflammatory and needs to be changed. Whether Sarah Palin is the first to acknowledge that she could have been more careful with her words and actions (which she won't be) or a liberal who doesn't even have a record of inflammatory rhetoric doesn't matter. Someone has to be first! Maybe then the others will follow suit.

The simple fact of the matter is that it doesn't take much to spark a flame on dry wood. In other words, it doesn't take much to make someone who is severely mentally unstable think that they're being told to do something that most people think to be unspeakable--especially if the one sending the message is a political figure.

The level of hatred being reflected back and forth from both parties is ridiculous. Personally, I don't want to see the 60s. I've read enough about it in history books and heard enough stories that I really don't want to live through it myself. We need to fix this before it becomes a severe issue. Six people have already died to open our eyes. Whether or not they were actually victims of the effects of inflammatory rhetoric is irrelevant.

Now is the opportunity to address the issue; now is the time to fix the issue.