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ComicsMaverick
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Name: Anastasia
Birthday: 6/8/1985
Gender: Female
Expertise: Area of Expertise? Ahh . . . my friend, if there is anything Anastasia knows anything at all about, it's comic books. Yes. That and the art of being obnoxious. <_< >_>
Occupation: Artist
Message: message me
Member Since:
8/3/2003
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| I'm bringing Xanga back - drop a comment if you're with me! | | |
| I have never felt so conflicted in all my life. For me, it’s even more difficult to understand than the inward battle between old nature and new nature. I want to write with all my heart, but when the time comes to pick up the pen and put it down, the passion dies and its ghost howls within, screaming for the will to be let out. Every time. It doesn’t matter that everything else is in place. The motivation, the desire, the life – it fails. I like to write. I really do. I just don’t have a reason to. Wherever in the four corners of the earth that reason is supposed to come from, I have no idea. It’s ironic that I’m writing to release these feelings. I can’t seem to write about anything else. Hm. Writing about the desire to write, but not to write. There’s something paradoxical there. What’s real anyway? The me that is content to sit for hours binding volunteer guidebooks at the office? Or the me that lives in daydreams of writing music, singing for people, and being heard? I wish I knew. Is this even normal? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ergh. This isn't even normal for me to be all mopey. I like to be happy, dangit. I just don’t understand myself. If I want to write, then why don’t I? If I don’t want to write, then why don’t I want to do something else? The biggest problem is that when I think of what I want to do, there’s nothing else I’d rather spend my time on. And when I find myself whiling away the time, I’m listening to music, studying music, analyzing chords and progressions, contemplating poetry. And then I imagine what I would like to say through it – and I draw a blank. Nothing. It’s not like I don’t have anything to say, or that I don’t care to say anything. I can’t even explain it. Fear is the closest thing that comes to mind. It’s paralyzing, draining, and embittering all at once. I think I’m missing something, but I don’t know what. I’m walking with God closer than I ever have; and even though it’s nowhere near where I should be, or where I ultimately want to be, I know I’m on the way there. If I do nothing else in this life, I will know Him. That will never change. Sometimes I think that maybe this is just another lesson in faith. I don’t think God gives us wishes that can’t or won’t be fulfilled. He doesn’t work like that. On the other hand – and this is what I’m afraid of – our own made-up desires, those are the ones that go unfulfilled (even though God is very polite and doesn’t always insist on His way). It’s that hope and that fear that drive me simultaneously. Hope that this is of God and someday I’ll be on a little stage somewhere playing music that makes people smile and think. Fear that this isn’t of God and that I’m more wicked than I can even know and I will never be happy because I never really chose to follow Him. . . . If journal-writing were an art, I would already be an artist. | | |
| I wrote this for our school paper. Those of you who either go to Corban or a similar Christian college will understand. And if you don't go to a school like that, just imagine a huge church singles group. Thirteen Proposals WARNING: The words you are about to read may contain material that is bothersome to those with a weak sense of humor or a tendency to misunderstand an author's intent. Persons with these conditions are advised to skip ahead to the next (much more sensible) article. All names mentioned in this article are actually held in the highest regard by the writer. Thank you for reading and enjoy. "Western Baptist Bridal College" . . . "Courtin' College" (or "Court 'n' College") – "Ring by spring or your money back!" Yes, yes, we've all heard these. And we know it's true in many ways. Just look around you – the flowers are blooming, the birds are singing, and the two-person benches around campus are more frequently occupied. It happens every year. For some, this is jolly good fun. For others, it is the source of neverending frustration. Students claim that they cannot even walk with someone of the opposite sex without being asked if they're engaged. Guys and girls are afraid to go to school formals as mere friends, because by the end of it they will be a "couple" and not even know it. And anyone going out with the same person at least twice needs to be aware that they are getting married next summer. Not a week goes by that I don't hear at least one complaint like these about our romantic atmosphere. Therefore, I have drawn up a set of thirteen proposals to cut down on our agony. - Fire Dr. Trammell.
- Replace all "love benches" around campus with small single chairs, nailed down at least five feet apart.
- Install a 24-hour watch in Common Grounds.
- Create a system where all freshmen wishing to date must fill out an application, write a five-page essay, and submit to an interview.
- Stipulate that all dates to be chaperoned by at least one Corban faculty member (NOT Dr. Trammell).
- Change the Chivalry Dinner to an all-school bowling night.
- Change the Winter Formal to an all-school ping pong tournament.
- Outlaw Roomies. Physical contact of any kind could be dangerous.
- Replace all shady grassy places (you know, the ones good for "studying") with prickly Astroturf.
- Require a rigorous physical test for all boys desiring to enter the lobbies of Aagard and Balyo.
- Require a quota of seven hand-knitted scarves for all girls desiring to enter the lobbies of Farrar and Davidson.
- Build a tall divider in the middle of PVG, one that closely resembles the walls in jails with the windows and the phones.
- Impose a tax on all romantic gifts, including flowers, chocolates, stuffed animals, and diamond rings – payable directly to Dr. Reno Hoff.
It is my belief that implementing these rules will create a more relaxed, casual atmosphere on our campus. With these much-needed restrictions in place, students will not have to worry about socializing with the opposite sex. And within these boundaries, we will be free to lead our own Platonic love lives. | | |
| This has been one of the longest weeks of my life. It all began last Monday night, when I was driving my '88 Corolla back from Portland to Salem. I was halfway when the annoying rattle in my car suddenly became pieces falling out of my hood on to the freeway. There was so much smoke coming out of my hood, I thought the car was going to explode, and there was a good chance I could die. I ended up having to pull over and walk three-quarters of a mile to the nearest gas station and use the pay phone. The next morning Meineke told me that a loose rod had poked a hole in my engine block. Which is kind of like poking a hole in your heart, if you were a car. That was Monday. Tuesday night one of my classmates was absent -- her grandpa had killed himself early Sunday morning. And to top things off, this was only shortly after her family found out their grandma, his wife, is dying from cancer. Then someone mentioned that the middle school principal of the local Christian school had had a heart attack the day before and collapsed on the spot. He was helping with a school fundraiser, filming a promo video. Wednesday another of my classmates shared that her aunt was dying fast -- of cancer. Another added that her mentor had passed away a couple weeks ago from cancer. Thursday at lunch, a friend asked me to pray for some friends of his -- suffering from cancer. That night when I went into work, everyone was angry with me because they thought I came in late. Really my boss had forgotten to write down that he'd scheduled me for the wrong time. Still it was my fault, of course. Friday . . . I don't even remember Friday. Class, class, class, work, work, work, work, work . . . play guitar in the PC late at night to relieve the stress. Saturday three of us decided to go up to the memorial service for our friend's grandpa. I got hives on the 4-1/2 hour drive -- go figure! I've gotten hives once in my life, only in high school. I have never seen so many people at a memorial service. It had to be 300, at least. And when one man asked everyone how many had been in the Roberts' home - nearly all the hands in the room shot up. Hundreds of them. After that I understood how great this man had been. I couldn't even imagine how hard it was for her family, to be so close to him and lose him suddenly like that. On Sunday, the three of us wanted to do something nice for our friend, so we thought we'd try and help her buy a dress for the upcoming formal. So we went around to as many people as we could think of -- I thought we'd get maybe half of what we needed -- but we got the entire amount! It was neat to see how many girls gave so eagerly and generously, literally emptying piggy banks and wallets. I spent the afternoon catching up on sleep. By Monday morning (today) our fundraising was complete and we bought the dress. When we presented it to her that night -- oh man, the look on her face! Haha. I was so glad we got to help a friend. Tonight in drama class was our monologue revision. I did mine, one from a family drama/comedy called Painting Churches, about a woman with eccentric parents, trying to win their approval. I think it went okay. People were laughing at the appropriate times, anyway. I kind of like this acting thing. I was really scared of it at first, but . . . I really like it. And that was the end of it. I don't quite know why it felt so good at that moment, or why performing that assignment was the culmination of -- something. My journal entries this week centered mostly around the question of bad things happening to good people. It's an easy enough question to answer in theology class. But when it's people you actually know, your good friend, you . . . it's a lot harder to answer. The past few weeks I've been struggling with thinking I can take care of myself; that I know what I want and that I will get it the way I want to get it. Of course it takes a week like this to bring me to my knees. And of course it's only then that I can really see God's goodness and beauty. Who am I anyway? Not much, really. My car, my job, my life is not under my control. Death surrounds me, and I can't do anything about it. I have no other choice than to put my little hand in a much bigger one and say, "Lead me." | | |
| Is it silly that I'm trying to feel grown-up tonight by putting on my pajamas, pulling out the ginger ale, and drinking it after a late shift at work? It's not often that I get good stories at work, but this one was too good not to remember. A tall man with a gray beard was talking on his cell phone as he walked up to my checkstand. He was grinning as he came up, but not at me, although he did give me a quick smile. He never said out loud exactly who he was talking to, but I want to believe it was his wife. "Who would ever thought back then when we were in that closet?" He chuckled to himself. "Yeah, yeah. Well, we've known each other for a long time, honey. Hmm . . . was it fourth grade?" She must have corrected him. "Wow, end of third grade, huh? Gee, that's fifty-five years -- no, that's longer than fifty-five years. No wonder I'm crazy about you." He laughed again. He smiled and nodded at me as he grabbed his bag of groceries and walked away. I could still hear him talking about how long he'd known her as I watched him leave. I turned around and realized that there was a customer waiting for me, and I was still grinning. Sheepishly I slipped back into my checker routine. But I kept smiling. | | |
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