New Blog

I have a new blog for my expository writing class. Here's the link:

www.brookeswords.wordpress.com

I won't be blogging here for awhile, as we have to blog three times a week for class, so I would like to direct my 6 or so fans to my new blog for the time being!

Thanks :)

Repressing my inner Book-Lover

Can you see the three stacks of books? Okay, let me explain what you're looking at. Stack one: Books I am currently reading for fun. Stack two: Books I want to read. Stack three: Books I have to read for school.

Hello, my name is Brooke, and I have a problem. And the problem is greater than my desk being too small to house all these paperbacks, along with my laptop, writing utensils, and the occasional pileup of dirty coffee mugs.

It all started with a trip to the Herrick County Library. My first trip there. They had a Spanish movie I needed to watch for class that Van Wylen lacked, so I trekked over in the snow one Friday morning. Got a library card (and a tiny little card for my keychain - did you know libraries did that nowadays? They certainly didn't when I got my first library card about 14 years ago!). And I ended up leaving with more than just the Spanish movie, of course. Leaving the library with just one book/movie is like trying to just eat one chip or one peanut m&m - not possible. Or trying to just spend two minutes on facebook - "I'll just check my profile and sign off." YEAH, RIGHT, YOU WILL! What a ridiculous thought. The quiet voice of reason that sometimes pipes up when I do rash things murmured, "Brooke, you know you don't have time to read the 2011 Best of the Small Presses, nor do you have time to read the Best Christian Writing of 2004 or listen to Harry Potter y la piedra filosofal on C.D. Stop. Just take the movie and leave."

Did I listen? I wish! I trekked back to my dorm in happy oblivion of the unhealthy addiction I was feeding with every barcode scanned.

Then, I went to Van Wylen one night after work intending to do homework. Of course, I got distracted by the shelf of new releases on the first floor. Twenty minutes later, I was plopped down in an armchair, practically comatose, flipping through a stack of books on grammar and pro-life activism with a nagging sense of wrongdoing. Like when you open the package of pop tarts and eat one, and then stare at the other one and tell yourself that pop tarts are a really nutritious snack.

I went to the library again the other night. Ugh! Why? Had I finished the books I got before? Of course not. But out I came into the cold night with a delighted smile and three new books.

The problem with being an English major is that when you're an English major, reading books that are not assigned for homework makes you feel very very guilty. This is a horrible, horrible thing - reading books should never induce guilt. Half of the world never even picks up a book on a daily basis - we who do should be proud. But when my time is limited and I have to read 15 Shakespeare plays this semester, it's probably not in my best interest to curl up with a novel. Or when I haven't emailed Grandma back, or figured out which 4-credit lab I want to take this summer (correction: have to take), or haven't sat down with the most important of books, my Bible, for a couple days.

It's not in my best interest to read for fun.... or is it? Maybe the time investment in good literature is always worth it. Maybe this English major needs to calm down, embrace the disease, and succumb. Maybe books are not an evil distraction from real life, but the best distraction possible...

Maybe it's about snagging the extra minutes of free time once the vital things of the day have been accomplished and feeding the book-lover in me. That book-lover in me is the sole reason I am an English major, anyhow. And if she continually gets reprimanded for her excessive library card use, she will be a very confused, sad English major indeed.

LOL

So I study the piano with Dr. Le, and I had a funny lesson with him today. Dr. Le is very passionate and smart. He's funny, too. These quotations have not been doctored and need no explanation...

Andrew Le: (In piano lessons) Brooke! That was fabulous. The constipation is gone! You doctored that section up with some milk of magnesia!... Okay, I'm being gross.

Andrew Le: (Later in piano lessons) Brooke, do you see what these tricks can do for these constipated sections?... Geez, I'm sorry, I need to stop with the constipated references.

Also, you never know what strangers will say when you've jumped out of the shower, run around all day with wet hair in the wind, and prayed that God would not let people think you're an uncaring idiot with no regard to your appearance -

Random guy: (Walking past as I'm waiting for my piano lesson to start) Dude. NICE hair. Just had to say that.

Oh, this is a humorous Thursday, indeed.

Suddenly I see

Here are my daily and fairly mundane realizations of the last two weeks (for reading when you have no new facebook notifications, or the timer's going to ring in five minutes, or you're waiting for so-and-so to call - not for important, deep, wonderful reading. I've been short on deep, wonderful ideas lately!)

After listening to a new Pandora station for a week - Sufjan Stevens, the indie wonderchild and claim-to-fame of Hope - I realized that Sufjan's music has never made me smile, made my foot start tapping, or brought a look of deep, satisfied contemplation to my face. (As much as that labels me as musically tasteless, I have to be honest. Sorry, Sufjan.) I'm just not a fan!

After battling my stubborn waves all week, I realized fully that the afro-style curls of my middle school years are gone and that my new long style means a lifetime of waves. I also realized I miss longer hair; thus, get growing, limp waves!

After my second trip to Meijer this month, I realized shopping for a plethora of snack food is silly and dangerous to my budget, especially when my parents pay the equivalent of the price of feeding a third-world country for a week every day for my 21-meal plan at Hope and I can pilfer fruit (and sandwiches. And bagels. And more.)

After volunteering at a thrift store this morning, I realized I want to add thrift-store browsing to my list of "to-dos" for the near future. Because the prices are lower than the snacks I buy at Meijer, and sometimes the quality is amazing.

After having several beautiful coffee and lunch dates, dinners out, and just nice conversations with my friends, I realized that true, real friendship is a gift. Yes, that's cheesy, but making friends takes time and effort, and finding those people who will laugh at the stupid things you say and refill your water glass time and time again at a restaurant without you asking - that is priceless. Friends get on their knees and do gritty work next to you and crack jokes in the process. Friends leave you the last two cookies in the plastic box. Friends tell you you're beautiful when you were just thinking, "I want to crawl in a hole and never come out." Friends are precious.

After trying to sign up for/commit to too many things in my life, I realized that I am not superwoman. (The cape is in my closet, yes, but it's several sizes too small.)

After being told that Justin Bieber has incredible talent, I realized that judging anyone before you know much about them is terribly dangerous - even male celebrities with skinny jeans and baby faces. JB, I may convert one of these days. For now, I will listen to a few of your songs and bob my head politely and refrain from making sarcastic comments.

After staying up too late bloggin, I realize it's time for bed :-) goodnight, world

Spring's Victory

I burst into the battle running,

bare arms nearly numb.

Sunshine takes the

edge off the wind.

Rotting pumpkins on porches,

and on every door a

wilted evergreen wreath.

A straw man submerged in snow,

bound to the mailbox post.

Everything is

melting, and the

rivers drench my

tennis shoes.

There is a

sunken snowman

slipping into the earth with

hands stuck straight up

like a drowning man.

The excited commotion from the

storm drain is enough

to scare away winter.

I see blue in every

piece of puddle, the earth

drinking desperately from the sky.

This is

spring's victory.

Reflections from Lemonjello's

I understand why coffee shops are the Mecca of writers.

When I walk in here, I enter a communal living room of sorts. Except this living room has one blue wall, one yellow wall, and one red wall, and the tabletops have three-dimensional stars.

You are talking about credit ratings with two other people, heads bent close together, eyes lit: learning is taking place. The girl and her boyfriend - brother? - are playing Scrabble at a two-person table. I wonder who's winning. And where she got her shoes. They are so different, old-fashioned, laced, maybe suede. People in here always have footwear like that. The guy over there is reading and sipping his drink. From behind I think he's a dad, but his red backpack and tennis shoes suggest otherwise.

There's artwork on the wall for sale, scones behind the glass for sale, something called maté with a special straw for sale. People come, people go, and I sit with my novel, less-immersed than usual because the novel in front of my face is real life.

When my drink was ready, he said, "You, in the purple. Did you order summer?" If you didn't check the menu and see that summer is the name of hot chocolate with blackberry and strawberry, perhaps the question would be a bit absurd in the middle of Michigan winter. But when you're standing in the middle of a coffee shop with dwarf statues in the corners and a barista that looks like Confucius, anything is possible.

A little poetry

Boarding the plane alone

“Final boarding call for flight 457 to Minneapolis,”

says the lady behind the desk.

In line, someone taps me on the back.

I spin around to greet the kneeling knight,

Mr. Tall-Dark-Handsome.

“You dropped this,” he says with a smile,

presenting a glittering ring.

And now, in the middle of Terminal A

I believe the Disney movies, and the dress-up,

and the messages on the candy hearts.

Rewind: look again.

Tapping is the habit of polite passers-by, not princes.

Mr. Tall-Dark-Handsome says,

“You dropped this,” and holds out my boarding pass.

“Thank you,” I say.

I realize that the white stallion is a scuffed beige suitcase,

and the prince is Mr. Dutiful-Stranger,

checking the monitors to find his gate,

somebody’s baby flying home for Christmas.