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Appledore
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Name: Periwinkle
State: Arizona
Metro: Phoenix
Birthday: 3/10/1988
Gender: Female
Interests: Hmmm . . . friends, movies, music, exotic food, roller coasters, glorifying my Savior, talking AND listening, swing dancing, tango, waltz, rumba, piano, sewing, window shopping, traveling, drama, shooting, archery, hiking, canoeing, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera . . .
Expertise: Helping people learn from my mistakes, forgetting to give my cares to God, talking to much, listening too little, coming across as rather heartless, procrastinating . . .
Occupation: Student
Message: message me
AIM:  neekerbreeker111
Member Since:
2/19/2006
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| So, I'm going to Oregon. And California and into a Washington suburb of Portland, but I guess Oregon is the main feature. Imagine it: green, wet, cool, cloudy loveliness! I'm incredibly excited! Two weeks and a day driving and visiting the West coast states. But, not only do these days hold in store a myriad of natural wonders and beloved family and friends, they carry the promise of hours of much needed solitude, hours to read and study and refocus my mind and heart. I'm really not sure what I'm looking forward to more. I truly believe that long car rides can be the harbors of great thoughts, just waiting for their ships to come in. And I long to know what magnificent vessels or homely dinghies God is sending to my docks. So, wish me safe travels (if you will), and pray that I listen to the bells and horns far off at sea. | | |
| A tingle runs up my spine, and I fight a small shiver. As the sun approaches his rocky retreat, a stony silhouette bathed in amber light, the chill of the concrete beneath me increases. Usually oozing with people, the fairgrounds are now almost empty, and my refuge beneath a blackened canopy is particularly lonely. But that is exactly as it should be.
Sitting in the middle, crosslegged on the dusty concrete, I am surrounded only by myself. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of contemplative people are staring at me from all directions, but I gave up counting them all hours ago. I would think, amidst the faces I know only too well, I would feel most accepted, most at home. But an eeriness overcomes the hall, and the silent, contorted figures serve only to make me feel more a stranger than ever. A girl to my left is folded over like an ape, and another to my right boasts a neck comprable to a giraffe. These images, while in most circumstances amusing, now impress me only with the true senarios they unintentionally illustrate.
In the eyes of those who know me, aspects of my person are highlighted and others supressed, even hidden. Different people see different nuances, and the sensible, normal image I believe I am projecting often returns to me as a freakish monster. Even I cannot often see myself for what I am, blinded as I am by the mirrors in my mind and heart. And, continuing to gaze through the twisted twins that surround me, I search for a way to correct their frightful faces. Can I purposefully act in a manner to try and bend back these panes to an upright posture? Is there any way that I, a mere visitor to this glistening hall, can hush the murmers of light splashed from panel to panel? No. If I bend them, they will shatter, and a harsh rain of glass shards will shower me with unrelenting questions. My intentions, in their eyes, will be more mangled and curious than before. I cannot correct the scupltures of myself cast in the past, not through the petty knowledge and strength I, as only a ticket holder, possess. Drops of salty water splash in the dust on the ground beneath me.
I stand, and a rain-scented air beckons me outside of my dark, reflective chamber. At the doorway I am greeted by Him, the one I ached to find amidst the confusion within. Pulling me aside, on a soft, grassy knoll away from the society-cast pavement, He again sits me down and captures my still-hungry attention. From His side, where, curiously, I saw no pocket, he brings forward another shimmering sheet, another window into myself. At first, afraid to be yet again terrified of my face, I close my eyes, escaping into the cold comfort of ignorance. But a soft word from His thirsty lips bids me open them again, and I am greeted by a crystal image of the girl I thought no one could truly know. A dull pain still grips me, as I see that many of the dusty marks I had hoped were only contortions remain. But, as I gaze into the mirror, He pulls out a scarlet handkerchief and wipes away the tear-stained marks on my face.
"There," He says, as bloody tears run down His own face, "It is finished." | | |
| I like little people. This includes . . .
> Hobbits
> Friends' sarcastic and cute younger siblings
> Musically inclined babies
> 24-year-old consciences | | |
| So . . . call me weird, but I love hanging out with my friends' mothers. We're not necessarily talking arranged get-togethers here, but when I'm at a function where their mothers are present, I often end up talking with them--perhaps more than with my friends!
But that's not really the point.
Despite how well I think I know someone--in this case, a mother--people very often find a way of utterly astounding me and shattering my previous understanding of their personality and its nuances. And it's often the most startling when it's a mother.
So there I am, sitting next to a mother, watching a basketball game. We talk about plays in the game, her son's injury, past games, my college experience, her other son's nail-biting habit, my brothers and how they're growing, and other stuff remotely connected to both our worlds. I think I have her pretty well figured out. She's the quiet, somewhat cautious type, sensible and sweet, and she loves to talk about my piano playing (go figure). Our conversations have always revolved around school, piano, or basketball. Never, ever, EVER would we talk about anything remotely silly or girly. Hehehe.
"Wow, you know, [player who shall remain unnamed but was not her son] is a real cutie, isn't he?"
I snap in a moment of shock as my perfectly ordered world of certainty turns topsy-turvy.
"Yeah, he is."
I can't believe I just said that! I can't believe SHE just said that!! Why did I have to agree so quickly?!
If it were one of my gal friends it'd have been no problem. But a mother? THIS mother?!
I sounded too emphatic! Now she probably thinks I like him!! AHHHH!!!!!
This exchange goes on for a minute or so, wherein she analyzes his appearance and observes that he inherited many of his mother's (quite good) features. Still in a state of shock, I continue to agree either verbally or with a dazed nod. I finally recover gracefully by turning the conversation to people in general and how they somehow exit the awkward adolescent years and suddenly grow up.
I'm still not sure why the conversation took that turn.
Sometimes I don't understand mothers. | | |
|  | Currently Watching
Chariots of Fire (Two-Disc Special Edition)
By Nicholas Farrell, Nigel Havers, Ian Charleson, Ben Cross, Daniel Gerroll, Ian Holm, John Gielgud, Lindsay Anderson, Nigel Davenport, Cheryl Campbell, Alice Krige, Dennis Christopher, Brad Davis, Patrick Magee, Peter Egan, Struan Rodger, David Yelland, Yves Beneyton, Jeremy Sinden, Gordon Hammersley
see related |
Well now . . .
I'm nineteen. Gosh, I feel old. And I didn't JUST turn nineteen. I've been nineteen for . . . . . . eleven days!
As a nineteen-year-old, I have only ever been public schooled. When I was eighteen, I finished my senior year as a homeschooler, performed in a homeschool drama production, and graduated in a homeschool graduation. The entire time I have been nineteen, I have been going to ASU. I feel . . . normal? Hmm . . . that's not the word I was looking for. There is nothing more abnormal, more against individuals' unique traits and needs than a zombiesque collective packed into a lecture hall and fed powerpoint slides and monotonous phrases for over an hour. I would say that I feel . . . an enormous pressure to be typical. There's almost nothing more grating that a flood of apathy and laziness oozing from all corners of a classroom or campus. And, unfortunately, there's also almost nothing more contagious. When I'm on campus, I am exhausted by the fight to maintain genuine interest in all that I am learning. On my own, it would honestly not be that hard. But, while I often experience periods of fastination in the material I'm presented with, the boredom plastered on the faces and apparent in the sighs of my classmates and, occasionally, my professors, seeks to dampen any eagerness that may exist within me. I often long to stay home and study new material on my own. What if I could learn on my own and only go to the professors when I had specific questions? What if I truly believed I could be self-motivated enough to do that?! Perhaps, under threat of being cast back into the hive, I might be determined enough to suceed almost completely on my own. But, in my current situation, that is not an option.
When I was eighteen, I knew both homeschooling and public schooling, and I lamented the shift from the one to the other. Now I must strive to maintain that non-conformist homeschool mentality in a public school crowd zealous to draw me in.
Laziness and apathy are out to get me, but they will not find a willing host in me. | | |
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