Comment te dire adieu? Or merci.

So if I don't write on this thing soon it will mean that I fail at my goal of writing on this thing at least once a month. And we can't have that now, can we?

As usual, I have too much of everything to say. For one reason or another I feel like I've lacked the time recently to process half of my thoughts, let alone write about them.

I gave a talk today about agency. It's something I thought alot about over the summer and I went back and I realized I had written pages and pages on this thing in the form of miscellaneous drafts about life, this, that, and the other.

I guess I underestimated the significance of this summer. I thought through a lot of stuff. I've said it before and I'll say it again: it's funny how some of the things I've gone through or done thinking they would be minor have ended up having a long lasting impact. I think half of the reason I like to get away, and relocate temporarily as often as I can is because it forces me to do a lot of adapting and reevaluating. Being out of my comfort zone-though not in a hugely forced or awkward way-has always resulted in this huge upheaval of confusion and questioning and ended up in me piecing my self back together more solidly than before. Maybe it's just age and the fact that most people, as they age, become more conservative, but I feel like the upheavals are less intense and that the piecing back happens more readily with each year.

Speaking of years, this one is almost up. I've been smiling to myself all week as I've thought back on it and on what I wrote on this thing almost a year ago: that 2010 was my year. And it really has been. Not in the outward sense; I have nothing to show for myself. But I know I'll look back on this year as one in which I figured out a lot of things. Hopefully.

Call me freakishly methodical or just plain weird in my desire to ascribe significance to random things, but I was thinking the other day how my "big years" are always the even years.

2000: Um, I turned 16. Fall football as yes, a pep-clubber. Enough said, right?

2002: Graduated Highschool. Freshman at the U. In this first semester I met most of the people I would hang out with the rest of my college years.

2004: Went to France. Toured Europe. Wasn't sure about the whole God thing. Decided I believed after all. Discovered the Shins. Stopped working for my Dad and started working at Lenderlab. A pretty darn pivotal year.

2006: Decided to graduate. English and French, baby. Did the whole diploma thing. I was accepted to teach English in France but decided I wanted to serve a mission instead. Had the best darn summer of my life. Said some awesome goodbyes. Left for Quebec.

2008: Returned from my mission. Got to see my sister married. Picked up the thread of my old life, though I was never, ever the same. I miraculously found out about the school where I work now and got a job there. I am grateful every day for that wonderful blessing. Grandma H and Grandpa B passed away. I decided to not go back to school. (Yet)

2010: A full year of this blog and gluten free eating! The Moab (ie Hundred Acre Wood) and Vegas (ie Horchata meets the 3 Gemini) trips in all their disastrous glory. Third year of teaching-and yes, it's a charm. Nanny job in Colorado. A summer of way too many phone calls and not enough person to person interaction and a lot of thinking. Almost a full year of barefoot running. Moved out. Made a decision about grad school. Passed the GRE! I should probably mention the 500 words smarter I am. As humbly as possible.

But do you see what I mean? The pattern is striking. So I guess next year I can just twiddle my thumbs and wait for 2012 so don't be sorry if you don't hear from my uneventful self. Too bad the world will end that year. (But at least it fits the pattern, right?)

In all seriousness though, this year has been awesome. I'll post some resolutions in a week or so.

What I'm trying to say- really, truly, humbly-is that I'm one of the lucky ones. Not that I deserve it. Not that I always will be. But I hear about how hard life is for some people and I cannot truly relate. I can empathize, yes. But I've had it so good. I chalk most of this up to the wonderful people I know and the rest of it to the big guy upstairs.

But sometimesIgetselfishandmaybedesperateandItrytoholdontoItwiththetightestgripIknowhowto makeinfearthatsomeday,thesethingsmightgo

away.

And in moments like that, the words 'thank you' seem too small. But I'll say them anyway.

For the record. My number one goal for 2011: to loosen the grip. And to really start showing them.

Logophilia

11/15/2010

Days till my half-marathon: oh wait, nevermind. Because all the cool, ideal races are planned on SUNDAY! Yeah, not bitter.

Days till Thanksgiving break: 9

Days till Christmas break: 33

Days till GRE: 33

Yep, that's right ladies and gents. The GRE preptest book and I are the latest item. You can find us snuggled up in my lovesac. Sharing a cup of tea in my appartment. Inseperable in the waiting room at the chiropractors office.

You wanna know the sick thing? When I'm not tired or hungry (it does actually happen) I actually really LIKE studying.

I mean, what's not to love:

*flashcards!

*multiple choice!

*right and wrong answers!

*tactics!

*words, words, and more glorious words!

*ball point pens in aching hands!

*latin bases prefixes and suffixes!

*oh and did I mention flashcards!

(Can I interject here and reference Thursday's French lesson and how I taught regular -er verb conjugations and loved it? And how words "I get it!" and "This is COOOL!" and "So easy!" rang out like the bells that signaled the end of school in 8th grade? And how I somehow smiled and sighed all at once? And how it was pure grammatical joy? Oh grammer!)

I'm back to being in my element here, with all these words. I think my word enthusiasm has come just in time to fill in the gaping hole where my enthusiasm for running used to be. Which makes me think that it's maybe a good thing, after all, that running funk of mine. I don't know how well I could have handled juggling that much enthusiasm inside one little me.

When I started to study my words it made me want to write on this thing every day, putting them to use not just for the sake of reinforcement (which isn't a wholly bad idea, you know) but because I love them and I want to welcome then into my life and let them be a part of me.

Thanks to this beautiful list of words, I now know who I am!

I am a NEOLOGIST!

Neologism is the creation or use of new words or expressions. Incidentally, it provides me with new incentive for continuing my trend of made up words. Lucky for you, all this new vocabulary also provides the incentive to look up and learn the words that my made up words are probably trying to express. Histoire de faire ses devoirs. (Yeah, that just doesn't translate).

So yes, you can all breathe a sigh or relief: I do have an identity after all.

Because I rarely get home before 7 these days and still have to nourish myself after that, operation blog-new-words remains unlaunched. I had another ephiphany though when a facebook friend posted this link:

http://westwinducla.wordpress.com/2010/11/05/it-has-begun-november-is-national-writing-month/

So I know that November is the month but it is SO not happening what with all I have to do. But come January, things are gonna get a little narcissistic here. I am totally taking the suggestion noted to just write about oneself. In fact, I was having this conversation with a coworker the other day about my fascination with intense people and situations and how they make me think of characters in a book. The only problem is, I forget sometimes that these people, unlike ink on a page, actually have lives. Interactions. Of consequence. (Or is it with consequences?) So it's all well and good to be fascinated, but life, real life can get messy. (Fuss).

I have, on more than one occasion, felt like I was watching myself from the outside in and that what I was living was terrificly Dostoyevsky-esque. Explain to me the irony of the fact that it makes me feel alive to feel like my life is, if only fleetingly so, like words on a page in a Dostoyevsky novel. And yet, there it is. Reminds me of a quote from "History of Love": "...larger than life...I've never understood that expression. What's larger than life?"

Apparently I suffer from the (if not often recanted) belief that literature IS in fact larger than life; suffer from the weakness of putting my better interest aside for the sake of a making of my life a "good story". And by good story, I mean dramatic, ironic, and deeply psychological.

The good news is, apparently mine is not an isolated case. Co-worker and I decided that writing about ourselves, making ourselves the central character of the story of our lives as lived by our drama-craved alter-egos, would maybe satisfy that insatiable call of that-which-can-only-end-badly. Basically, we would live vicariously through ourselves. And I have to wonder, is this what separates me from a true "Author"; the fact that an author is one to whom the stories come to whereas I can't imagine writing a character and not having it be some alter-ego version of myself and can't fathom how they are able to either.

I know I'm chalking it up to another effort of being my own therapist. I know that it doesn't change the fact that the narcissism is nauseating; that I'm just one garrulous son of a gun; that, like so many of my good intentions, this is probably another idea I will not actually follow up on.

And that writing and finishing this whole post has just been an ill-disguised attempt at procrastination. I have a Monstrous Liar post on its way. But don't be fooled. It's just another sad attempt to not do what I am trying to convince myself that I love: studying.

Oh ambiguity!