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Methodic_Madness
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Name: Kate
Country: Botswana
Birthday: 4/4/1922
Interests: Photography, People, green things, walking on the beach, cargo pants, guitars, Thai food, baking muffins, travel, sunsets, and stargazing in an open field
Expertise: Salt Shaker
Occupation: Retired
Industry: Nonprofit
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
9/22/2004
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| Rocking chairs and Waterfallswritten on 8/28/08 in a handmade journal from India with a fish head on it with a smudgy black ink gel pen:
I feel as if, because it's my last semester in college, that I am holding on to my memories too early and too much. It's as if I am living in a state of premature sentiment.
It's like the excitement of college and the thrill of the unknown future have faded in me. Perhaps faded isn't the word. It's more like... seasoned and aged. It's different. I feel it.
It is as if I can remove myself from where I am in life and be able to say, "your seasons are changing. You are in a transition process. Your chapter is ending and a new one is about to begin. It is the same sort of waterfall feeling I got right before I graduated from highschool.
I am in a small boat about to go over a waterfall. However, the waterfall represents change and going over it isn't necessarily a bad thing. It is big, and unknown, and scary, and it will swallow me up... but it isn't necessarily a bad thing.
I'm not sure when I came to the realization that this life of mine is bigger than me. People traipse through life searching for their purpose until they die. I feel as if often times they spend all of their time searching that they forget to actually live.
That's the thing with me, Kate Gazaway. I fully recognize that my life is brief and seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, but the fact that I am HERE in this time living life the best I know how is all I am supposed to do. I am not searching for my purpose because I find it every day.
I have had people tell me that they want to have my life, but I wonder why. It isn't as if my life is extra-ordinary to anyone else's, but perhaps my approach and perspective are different.
There was a point in my life that was steeped in the frantic search for meaning and purpose, and this was all under the guise of Christianity and spirituality. Not to say I wasn't a Christian at this time, but instead of the peaceful anticipation of an unknown but fulfilling future like I have now, at that time in my life I was a flurry of uncertainty.
"Pray now that God will bring your future spouse to you. Pray now that God will reveal your future job, school, occupation, destination, etc to you. Figure out what you want to do with your life. Figure out how you can best serve God in the future. Future future future."
And thus was my problem. I was so future minded that I didn't fully absorb and appreciate the time of life I was in. It's the age-old story of wanting to be a grown up as a child, an established adult as a teenager, a seasoned career professional as a college student, married when single, a child when old, and then death. '
No way. Not for me. I am happy...right here at this time in my life. I may be going over this waterfall of unknown changes soon, but right now I am sitting in a creaky old rocking chair in the boat, enjoying the view before I go over.
I don't want to ever look back on my life and say, "Oh. What was I don't then? I was very busying with some thing or another. I don't remember. "
I ALWAYS want to remember and I ALWAYS want to make the day, the week, the month, the year count. God always told his people to remember remember remember what happened to them (both good and bad) and what He did for them.
I always want to remember. That is why my life is so amazing. That is why I can smile without faking it, from my heart. That is why life ravishes my senses and thrills me through and through. That is why I can love and that is why I am in love. Why I can be satisfied in any circumstances and why I have peace.
If God sees fit to use me then I am the happiest pawn of them all.
I am Kate Gazaway. I am 22.5 years old. I am single. I am a photographer. I am a friend. I am passionate. And I am damn happy to be here.
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| The Trucker WaveAt first I thought it was a muscle spasm, but then I realized it was directed at me. It was a faint but unmistakable wave of the hand as I passed by. This wasn’t just any ol’ Miss America wave or even the small town country wave you would expect from this part of North Carolina. Oh no. It was much more than that. It was a wave, I quickly came to find out, known as “The Trucker Wave.”
Because I had to move back up to North Carolina from my home in Georgia, I used my Dad’s huge Chevy something-or-other pickup truck to tote my collegiate necessities around. It is a huge truck, with room enough in the cab to fit 8 people and a huge engine that rumbles like Southern thunder. Not to mention the huge gas tank which consumes unethical amounts of gasoline merely by starting the beast up. I have this Chevy Monster for a week until I can get my sleek, Kate-style Pontiac Vibe back.
The house I am living in while in North Carolina is a nice house out in the country. Giving people directions to my house is easy, “Drive until you reach the airport in the cow pasture, take a right at the Flying Pig barbecue, and it’ll be a few miles through the fields after that.”
It’s funny to me to think that a mere 2 weeks ago I was living my life in the city of Los Angeles. Now, I find myself back here in Boiling Springs, North Carolina. Both cities I can appreciate for their diversity and unique personalities, but they are by no means the same. I daresay I am experiencing a sort of culture shock being back here in the South.
This brings me to the Trucker Wave. While my truck would be reproached for it’s menacing size and glared at with disdain by environmentalists in Los Angles, here in Boiling Springs, I have observed, it is looked at with a sort of respect and admiration. Perhaps it is the National Rifle Association sticker or the Cherokee Rose Sporting Resort license plate on it, but it’s probably just the fact it’s a big-a** Chevy truck.
As a sign of this respect I (well, not me… the truck) have received an increasing amount of Trucker Waves as I drive through the town. It is inevitable. Old men trimming their lawns in the morning, construction workers, blue-collar men walking down Main Street, other men in ungodly sized trucks passing me on the road… all have flashed me the Trucker Wave. This is a secret club phenomenon that has never happened to me before. It’s almost better that being in drama club.
I called my dad to tell him about this strange, new experience I was having because of his truck.
“Dad! People throw down the Trucker Wave when I pass them on the street! It’s incredible!”
“Oh... the Trucker Wave,” he said, his voice grave, “I was going to wait until you were older to tell you about the Trucker Wave.”
These past few years of my life have been full of changes and the wonderful process of me discovering how to live my life to the fullest. I feel that I have done more in my short 22 years than many people have done in a lifetime. I have traveled, met all sorts of interesting and influential people, and experienced things that most humans only dream about. However, all of these things pale in comparison to the unity and camaraderie I have found within the warm embrace of the Trucker Wave.
Throw it down. Chevy country style.
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| JazzJazz.
Oh, Jazz.
Jazz is like sex. Or, what I think sex would be like, as I haven't had done it yet.
Jazz is what rocked the youth culture of 1920's America and started a musical and social revolution.
Jazz is impassioned and wild and all consuming. It makes me wish I was capable of MORE feeling and MORE emotion than my frail human body can handle.
Jazz makes me hear in colors and see in emotions.
*************
I just got back from The Green Door club in Hollywood where Tuesday night is Jazz night. There, in this beautiful club, I sat enraptured on a plush cushion, unaware of all the outrageously perfect-looking Hollywood types as I watched this scruffy group of black guys rock their instruments. The saxophone player was a dark chocolate shade of African and all you could see of him was his white eyes which would roll back when he played. The bass player couldn't stand still. The piano player couldn't stop smiling. The drummer's hands were flying so fast they could barely be seen amidst the glorious syncopation.
The music was unreal.
It was magical.
It was.... jazz.
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| Catcher in the Rye: bringing Hollywood togetherSo, I came to Los Angeles not knowing what to expect.
It’s practically a miracle that I’m here in the first place.
I’ve decided that LA is the best place to read a classic novel in public. Well, perhaps New York is better, but the people of Los Angeles are more apt to strike up a conversation about it.
My book of choice is The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. I think it has been on every human’s summer reading list except mine. I think it’s because I’ve gone to Christian schools all my life and the book was off the list because it has a fair bit of profanity in it. I decided to read it here in LA and improve the quality and culture of my life.
Down the street from my North Hollywood apartment is a unique café called Aroma. There is a fair bit of outdoor seating along with cute, European style tables on the sidewalk out front. Inside towards the back of the café is a bookstore. The owner of the bookstore is very picky and protective of her books and only chooses the best covers or the most exclusive prints. It is at this bookstore/café that I chose to buy Catcher in the Rye.
When I asked for Catcher in the Rye the book woman was ecstatic. She found the copy and carefully withdrew it from the shelf. We chatted about the book as I was paying for it and she told me all about Holden Caulfield and her observations of the book.
Suddenly, she leaned in close and whispered, “I want to show you something. Look at what I found outside the Discovery Store in Hollywood today.” She slowly pulled a tattered piece of paper from somewhere and slid it across the counter to me. It was actually an old, yellowed photo of a baby with bright eyes and a simple looking dress. It was probably taken in the early 1900’s. The woman said she found it in the garbage bin outside the store.
“This is what happens when people don’t have any family. Their memories either end up in flea markets or the trash. But not this baby. This memory isn’t going to the trash because I rescued it.”
I handed the photo back to her as if I were handing her a priceless Faberge egg. She smiled with a distant and dreamy look as she looked at the baby photo before placing my copy of Catcher in the Rye in a bag. The book has a striking red cover with a drawing of a horse and New York City on it. I started reading it all curled up on a sofa at a different coffee shop down the street. I had read about three pages of the book when two LA style old men commented on it.
My famous-novel-in-public theory was proven correct.
I told them how it was never on my summer reading list and I’m making up for that this summer. They told me how much they loved it, though they couldn’t really remember what it was about anymore.
That’s another theory I have. People will talk all day about the books they read, but so many times they have no idea what they’re talking about. I won’t lie, I do it too. So many books I’ve read I only remember what I liked or didn’t like about it, not the characters or the story.
Not so with this book. I think I’ll remember Holden Caulfield for a long, long time. He reminds me so much of my little brother, Marcus: quick witted, full of profanity, and always able to describe the most minute details in semi-eloquent prose.
Anyway, I was still curled up on this sofa in a Hollywood coffee shop talking with two old men about my book. It was a good conversation and it was a good thing they couldn’t remember much about the book because one of my least favorite things in the world is when people spoil then endings for me. I abhor it when people ruin my endings. I figure if the author wanted to spoil his own ending, he would write it sooner in the book. Therefore, no one but the author (or director in the case of movies) should be able to spoil an ending.
The second time I read Catcher in the Rye in public is now. I’m currently back at Aroma Café and I had a dinner of roasted goat cheese and walnut salad with an iced mocha to drink. I sat alone during dinner and I continuously got those, “Awww, how sad. She’s eating dinner alone. She must be single and lonely” type of looks from happy dining couples. You know the looks I’m talking about. I didn’t care though because I was content with my toasted goat cheese, a sure cure for lonely hearts.
After I finished eating, I pulled out my book and started reading. I already proved my theory correct so I wasn’t “reading on the job” or anything, just for the sheer pleasure of observing Holden Caulfield and his New York fiasco.
An older man with a Hawaiian shirt and a black Americano coffee sat down at the table next to me.
“Oh no,” I thought, “This guy is trouble.”
I could read him like a book as I was reading my book. Within 5 minutes he had taken a sip or 12 of his coffee, then turned to me and asked if I was reading about politics.
“No, sir.” I replied.
“Not politics?” said he, “But it’s J.D. Salinger.”
“Um…no. Right now the character is ice skating in the park.”
“Oh. I bought a business book for 50% off the other day. I sent it to my cousin in northern California.”
And thus the conversation transpired. We discussed business, cell phone plans, and the difficulty of the elderly in learning to use computers. I got a phone call and he made his departure.
Theory proved, once again.
His table was immediately taken by an obese woman in a leopard print blouse. She was struggling to open her designer Los Angeles bottle of water. I watched her for a bit and she had barely broken the designer Los Angeles silver seal on the lid when I decided to come to her aid. I asked if she was having the pickle jar syndrome. You know, when you get an impossible jar of kosher dills and go through extreme measures to open it until you give up and find a man with competent pickle jar opening skills.
This designer water was a piece of cake to open though. She explained how she had arthritis and could barely do the simplest tasks. I felt sorry for her. Pickle jars must be a nightmare.
Now the sun is setting and I have to go. People are looking at me like I don’t deserve the table I’m sitting at because I don’t have food. They’re probably right. I’ve finished my coffee already anyway, so I should go.
This is Kate Gazaway in Los Angeles, signing out.
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| Buried in Elephant PooThese past few months have been months of extremes.
While frolicking in a field in Puerto Rico, I tore my ACL and meniscus in my knee and I had to have surgery. Therefore, I had two weeks of school work and tests to make up when I finally made it back to school while I was on pain meds and crutches. Because of my injury, I wasn't able to work (as a paid photographer for the school), so I lost my job. My Grandmother died 4 days after I got back to school, so I had to fly back home for the funeral of someone I loved very dearly. The same day she died, the boy I deeply liked decided we shouldn’t date, so we ended it. My dad told me that I can't go back to school after the next semester because of financial reasons, so I had to figure out how I can graduate or drop out of that college. None of the teachers would work with me to graduate, so I was pretty out of sorts trying to figure it all out. This all happened from March 8-31.
I didn't blame God or anything, but I felt like I was suffocating under the tidal wave of all that was happening. I drew a stick figure comic of an elephant burying me in a pile of its poop, and that was probably a more accurate representation of how I felt.
I don't remember if I did anything, but I eventually came to terms with what was going on and said, "God, it has absolutely been proven to me that I can't do life on my own. I've tried to take over for You and I've tried to hide my weaknesses and shortcomings from others. I suck."
The whole time, deep down, it was like God was whispering "Yeah? And I still love you."
Normally, I feel as though I can skip and march confidently through life. Yet now, it was as if I was crawling on my knees (oh wait. I had surgery on my knee. So really, it was like I had the crutches kicked out from me then pushed to my knees), and finally someone came along, tied a string around my pinky finger, then dragged me face down through life. I mean, really, it was like I was having a mini-Job month. I was crushed physically, emotionally, spiritually, and mentally.
I think it was after I acknowledged my lack of...everything... that God decided to shout "Kate, I still love you."
I wouldn't believe it if all of this hadn't of happened to me, but during this whole time, I had peace in my soul. Deep down, illogical peace.
I could sense that April would be a different month for me.
My knee progressively got better so I had more mobility and I was able to start doing things for myself again (like, carrying my coffee from the counter to the table without assistance). I still didn't have a job, but I was OK financially and I was eventually able to do some fun photography projects again (check out my flickr site if you want to see). I remained friends with my almost-lover guy and he has helped me through a lot of this. Somehow, all of my classes worked out because of a few helpful teachers so I can actually graduate in December.
As for an internship, my uncle knew someone who knew someone and now I have an internship with a photography agency in Hollywood, California. My friend is road tripping out there with me over a 4 day period so I can have my car out there. Tonight, I just got off the phone with another friend who asked me to be her room mate for the summer in an unbelievable apartment in north Hollywood that's within my price range.
I couldn't have planned everything out better myself. I wonder what the heck I doubted God for. I mean, I feel so entirely undeserving of all that's happened to me recently.
So, do I think I would still praise God even if none of the crap-times had happened to me?
Yes. Yes I do. I mean, it took the crap times to prove that to myself, didn't it?
Do I think all of these astounding changes in my life are a "reward" for being faithful in the crap-times?
Possibly. I feel so grateful and awestruck. I don't think it's right for me to question whether I performed some sort of cosmic positive action which caused God to shower me with blessings. It's certainly not by my own merit that these things happened. As far as Christianity goes, I'm horrible at it, but I can admit that and keep going.
I think God did all of this just because He wanted to. I just hope I don't screw up this opportunity like I normally do.
"God, who has called you into fellowship with his Son Jesus Christ our Lord, is faithful." (I Corinthians 1:9)
So, here I am now. I come before God and humanity broken down, but not destroyed; emptied so that I can be filled up again, and in the process pour myself out for others.
As my friend Heidi told me tonight, "Christ didn't come so that we could just survive. He came so we could have abundant life."
And that's what I intend to do.
Living abundantly from a broken body,
Kate
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