I can't fix this world, but if I'm dying anyway, then I will die trying.

After the shooting in Connecticut, I didn't want to post hastily about gun control and mental health and the shallowness of people on Facebook and Twitter about the whole tragedy. I didn't want to write insensitively about something so painful, so real when the child who is most precious to me is in kindergarten now. I didn't want to write with a reactive vendetta for all the wrongs in this world. I've done that before, and there are consequences for thoughtlessness. But I've had time to sort through those feelings, and I'm as ready as I'll ever be to speak about it.

Tanglewood Press has made a really beautiful statement with the help of a Connecticut mom and Audrey Penn. Go to the link to be a part of that.
That whole project inspired me from speechless disbelief to hopeful action. The only way to confront Evil is the produce Good. "Be the change you want to see in the world," right? But I feel only a hate that I don't even try to drive away when those bastards at Westboro Baptist capitalize on people's pain. But the public support gathered to block their idiot cries trying to make their statement of hate gave me hope. Hope has been in short supply lately. (Quite literally, as the One Hope United employees will tell you. My mom collects hope trinkets and ornaments that are only sold this time of year among peace and love items. But for some reason, in cruel irony, the have been nearly impossible to find this year.)

But I found it.

I've looked to the things that make me feel better. I paid for the guy behind me in the drive-thru at Starbucks today--a guy in a piece of shit car, smoking a cigarette, and petting a cat sitting on the console. That made me feel better. Being a part of giving those kids at One Hope the best fucking Christmas of their lives... that made me feel better. It's not that I'm a saint or anything. I'm doing this to prove to myself that enough Good will drive out Evil. The generosity of those who donated to One Hope brought on a regular flood of tears. It's as if those people were doing what I was doing--they were proving to themselves that the world doesn't suck. The world has been acting shitty lately, you know? But even with the lack of hope, in the way that I sought hope, so have so many others. Among Mom's gifts from coworkers, hope was bountiful. It was nearly, but not quite impossible to find.

That's my sweater, bitch ;)

When a mom smacks her kid in Wal Mart, Kayla is tickling the piss out of Julian. For every child (and parent) at Sandy Hook, The Kissing Hand will provide much needed comfort. There is plenty of Evil in the world. Plenty, plenty. But there are good, good people. And we can make a difference. You don't have to save all the starving children in Africa to do that, though. You can just wrap presents for kids who don't have a family to spend the holiday with. You can help out at a soup kitchen (props to Noah), and you can forgive that dude that cut you off on your way to work.

I just read John Green's The Fault in Our Stars (you can stop judging me for dropping the ball on reading. I'm catching up, okay?) and I finished it in a night. I stayed up past my self-designated bedtime to finish it, sobbing alone in my room. The world is trying to prove its fragility to me. Hazel Grace is telling me, Connecticut is telling me, Hurricane Sandy is telling me... You can't turn on the television (something I gave up a long time ago) without those images forcing themselves into your conscious. The Fault in Our Stars hit me hard, probably because I'm already in an estrogen-induced, emotional break down, but it knocked me on my ass. Hazel is me if I were dying. Which, she would point out, I am. But if I was made more aware of my dying, I think I would be a lot like Hazel. Or maybe I have a flawed view of myself--I tend to judge others more accurately than myself. But in her voice I heard myself. Fragility. That's the word ringing in my head. I'm living a very fragile life. There's only a few cancerous tumors between Hazel Grace and I. There's only a few states between my precious babies and Sandy Hook. I can't fix this world, but if I'm dying anyway, then I will die trying.

Light Saber Fights and Burned Cookies

Before finals started, I got up to some shennanigans with my friends, because that's how you make memories, duh. I finally got to see my lovely Mikayla, and introduce her to the amazing Shannon, and now they are friends. As they should be. We tried to make cookies. And some of them were okay. But there was an extra-special-awesome batch that we made too!

On an completely unrelated note, Shannon totally asked me if she was holy enough to wear that Waycross shirt. Which, if you know me is funny for about 40 reasons. But the one you don't know... is that's not my shirt. I'm still not sure to whom it belongs.

Kind of staged reaction... but remarkably accurate. Also. You can kind of see the smoke, which is awesome.

All together now! Oh. And that hat says SWAG.

So, in the midst of finals, I'm starting to feel sick. My throat is sore and I'm sneezing in a way that draws the grumpy attention of already-pissed college students studying in the library. It's not like I want to sneeze asshole. And I glare just as grumpily back, because I've lived in this library for a semester, and they're in my territory now. I own this joint. Shannon gets 50% of the rent I'll be collecting off the bitches on our couches. It was due to all this bull shit that I chose to study at The Coffee Grounds last night with my German classmates. Also, there's cool graffiti and good music (most of the time). The study party was hit and miss (surprisingly, since I thought more people would be crying pitifully over their failed adjective ending quizzes that he mercifully allowed us to take a total of three times). The only downside? I didn't get to see ISU's Stress Relieving Penguin, Bunny, and Bear.

Here's the bunny and penguin... the bear was sick, I think.

I gave up studying near the end. When all my classmates had left for one reason or another, I stayed for a while with Shannon, still trying to cram little bits into my overloaded brain. Then I gave up. Shannon needed earbuds, so I drove us to Wal Mart. The ride was exciting with a possibly drunk driver ahead of us (or just momentarily distracted). When we got there, I re-remembered that I had to pee. I made Shannon come with me because GIRLS DON'T PEE ALONE, DAMMIT. I walk in to chaos. It's already kind of unfortunate because it's a Wal Mart Bathroom . But this was was a special kind of awful. A mom and grandma were trying to use the bathroom and the little boy they had left unattended was opening their stalls to their loud curses and commands. I locked my door carefully for fear that he may mistake my stall for his grandma's. Shannon said urgently "Maddie, hurry up in there." And that I did. And while the mom lectured the little boy about hand-washing (I'm convinced entirely for our sake), we skimped up outta there. No hand-washing involved. Who washes their hands for pee, anyway? That shit sterile.

STERILE, I TELL YOU!

So. I don't know if you know this, but the earbuds are pretty near the toy aisle. You know what's in the toy aisle? Light sabers. That's right. Shannon and I fought to the imaginary death. I died of course. In my defense, the beast is a martial arts minor. I stood no chance. I got a picture of her that clearly represented triumph. It was soon her profile picture and got a bajillion likes which is awesome, because in the 21st century, that is how we measure success: the number of likes on our profile pictures. (See the badassery below.)

"INSERT AWESOME STAR WARS QUOTE HERE!" (In all caps)

I got some studying out of the way--I still have no clue how that final went today. It is what it is and I'm so glad that what it is is over. Ugh. I did have time to deliver my presents to favorite professors. :) I know. I'm adorable. I made cookies for my choir director as well--but she wasn't there to receive them. I decided to write my name on the Tupperware for two reasons 1) I didn't want her to think someone else was poisoning her. 2) She needed to know it was I who was returning the music so I could get credit. Of course, that was the order of consideration in my brain. I was more afraid she'd think I was poisoning her than would think I still hadn't returned my music. Thinking back, though, I'm pretty sure that my music was numbered--duh. So I guess the first reason remains the only real reason to have taken the cookie credit.

I'm being ramble-y.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=htTLWC1unMc

Moving on. Now that my big finals are out of the way, and my worrying has developed into the kind where distraction is actually a good thing, I've returned to my to-read list. I finished The Giver by Lois Lowry. Thoughts are, I'm not sure how I hadn't read that as a kid. Childishly, I'm almost positive the reason I kept not reading it was because I didn't like the cover; also I didn't like books about boys unless it was Harry Potter. However, I won't complain too much because if I'd read it in 5th grade or so, I'd have denied my current, 19 year-old self the privilege to read a book that wouldn't have actually been that remarkable to me at the time. Oh, I'm sure I would have loved it then, too, but it can't be denied that my grown-up (sorta) brain got way more out of it than I would have. So... I get the hype. This is like The Hunger Games lecture all over again. I GET IT. I'M CATCHING UP NOW, THANKS.

Now that I've finished it, I'm reading Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair. I've wanted to read this book for some time. First, I loved Jane Eyre (even though I wanted to hate it), and it's been on the book shelves in my house for a looooong time. Secondly, Fforde. It's so amusing that his name is spelled that way. Is that his real name? I could totally look it up on Wikipedia, but that seems like something not worth doing. Nahhh. Okay, I did it. I'm pretty sure that's his real name. The page leaves much to be desired, however. I'm sure that he's had a much more interesting life than all that.

I'm wearing a watch today. I took it off to type, however. Tick, tock, the library's a clock.

Also. Worth mentioning. To cheer me up today, Zac told me a story about an old man who walked into his dealership, said "I smell a democrat," and walked back out. I hope that makes you happy too.

My Good Reads review of Ashfall

I'm not going to summarize it. You can read the preview if you click on the book. This is more of a personal response than a review.

I had forgotten how much I love YA. This book started off with an unfortunate event, and things worsened in an increasingly realistic line of disaster. That realism was definitely my favorite part. It was so incredibly POSSIBLE, that it was all the more terrifying. I found myself trying to feel everything they felt along with them. Mike just about did that for me with his intricate (but most importantly, readable) descriptions.
On that note: I've always loved survival books--I think because I hope I'd be that strong if I were plopped in, say, the Red Zone of a super-volcano eruption. It had been a while since I'd actually read a really good survival book like this, though. And now that I'm (slightly) more mature, it was far more emotionally exhausting than if I'd read Ashfall in junior high or high school.
I can relate to Darla and Alex in ways I couldn't have before. It's easier to imagine my own heartaches intensified than it is to try to imagine that feeling initially. There's another argument for adults to read YA!
Also... DARLA! I love her. Now ...that's a heroine I can get behind. She is tough, tough, tough, but she has an impressive capacity for love and compassion. And Alex? I haven't read a more likable hero since Harry Potter. He changes so dramatically over the course of the book, but the change is subtle. His transition into adulthood caught me by surprise.

I love, loved it. I cannot wait to stick my nose in Ashen Winter (OVER THANKSGIVING BREAK!) I can't believe it took me this long to pick up! I'd convinced myself I didn't have time. But if you really love a book, and you fall in love with those characters, and they're in constant danger!... then you make the time. Thank you, Mike Mullin for reminding me of that.

NOW IN PAPERBACK!

"Setzen Sie fort, die offenen Fenster zu passieren"

or Keep passing the open windows. That's where my blog title came from. I also may get it as a tattoo... someday. In typewriter print. On my side. It's just perfect. It's the perfect metaphor.

Okay...11

Three of my favorites. My kitty, Harry Potter, and my brilliant Jude.

This has not been my week... or moth, really.

Last night, after all the drama of which I've previously posted, there was more drama, that I don't care to get into on here because I don't want to publish family business on public domain. If I ever write an autobiography, I'll be sure to include that story for your viewing pleasure. I really hope that by the time I get around to telling the story it'll be more funny than depressing as hell.

I love bananas.

I had Fusion at 6:00 IL time this morning. It was short. Sweet baby Jesus, thank you! So I changed clothes in the men's restroom. The women's was being cleaned unfortunately, so I just sneaked in there. But when I was changing in the stall, someone came in and used the urinal. It wasn't even weird or awkward, which is why it's sort of a notable anecdote for me. I felt like I should have been afraid or uncomfortable. And I think I was just too tired for any kind of intense emotion like those. I just waited for him to finish, gave him a few minutes to get away from the bathroom, and left. Then I ate me some breakfast. Bananas. <3 And I called my mommy. Sometimes that's just so necessary--talking to your mama.

I ate alone, which wasn't so bad. Again. Usually that drives me crazy. I'm paranoid people will think I'm a friendless loser. But I'm pretty sure no one cares--just like I don't care when I see people sitting alone. And I don't invite them to sit with me anymore--that went poorly once. Some people are sitting alone for a reason. But I was just sitting alone because no one was awake at 7:30 IN time. No one. Like, this campus is a ghost town.

I love soy milk.

But when I got off the phone with my mama I thought I saw Kaylee, and so I went over to sit with her. It was weird because I was walking towards her back, facing only her companion, who was a girl I'd never met. I kept making uncomfortable eye contact with that girl, and I thought, when I see Kaylee it'll all make sense and she'll introduce us. But it wasn't Kaylee. So I just left with my banana. I wish they'd let me take the soy milk. Silk.

And now I'm free until 2:00 IN. So I'm wasting time right now. I think I'll start my German homework at 9:30 and do it until my cancelled class would normally end. But then I scheduled a study party for the German 202 final from 10:45 until German 495 at 2:00. I must hate myself. Anyway. Then I'll start to take stuff down to my car at 3:15 until like 5:00. Then dinner? If I have friends, which I may not. Then I'm going to Vagina Monologues at 7:30. I'm pretty sure I have no homework for tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I have nothing for tomorrow, period. I just need to studystudystudy.

This has not been my week... or month, really. But I'm still alive. Just like always, I'll keep passing the open windows. I'm seriously considering getting that as a tattoo. Also. I kind of just want to run a church camp. But I really want to be a therapist. Can I do both? How does that work? How does life work? Does love really conquer all? And where is the other sock?

Dobby has it.

No. I'm not going to sum-up this word vomit. I know I usually do. Don't care.

Funny thing.

In my last post I referenced Hotel New Hampshire with "sorrow floats." I hadn't remembered until now, that that is the same Irving novel from which this blog's namesake comes. "Keep passing the open windows." That little realization is making today just a little better. <3 Thanks for that, Irving.

Sorrow Floats

I'm feeling really down this week. The Big Black Dog has found its way to me yet again. But I'm so close that I'm going to keep pushing through. It's only a matter of time before none of it matters. But yesterday? Fell asleep at 7:00. Woke up around midnight. Blogged hella lot. Fell back asleep around 2:30, I'm guessing. Had nightmares all night. Kept waking up. It was a strange dream.

I was in an apartment somewhere, and there were lots of people. I'm sure they were people I knew in life, but I couldn't tell you who they were now. People came in and out a lot. That stressed me out because I didn't know when people came in and out, and I was afraid I would let someone in I didn't know, or let someone leave that was too drunk to drive. I couldn't focus very long and my head was spinning. Then someone came to get us, and put us all in different pick-ups. I was in one with a girl and a guy, and there was a saw in the backseat (saw? wtf subconscious?). I cut my fingers on it, and they were split open quite badly. I tried to hold the wound together, but the fingers just kept swelling.

I woke up then and my fingers were kind of hot and a little swollen. I've had another dream like that where someone shot my fingers off. I don't know what the finger obsession is...

Then I fell asleep again. And this time I was back in the apartment. And I don't necessarily want to discuss the rest because it's kind of embarrassing. And I woke up once from that, regrettably. And then again out of fear later. Something must have gone wrong...

Let your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground.

Here comes some *word vomit:

fun. is back. And everyone else knows who they are. Cool. Not like I knew them years before you all did. Nice of you all to make fun of my music until everyone else started to like it. Just saying. Happens all the time. Jason Mraz, John Mayer, Lily Allen, Sia, Ray Lamontagne, Kate Nash, and I liked RATM WAAAAAY before their comeback with the cool (douche) boys in my high school senior class. My music is "weird" until a song ends up on the radio, then it's "Such a good song!" What does that say about our culture? This is actually kind of interesting to me--annoying, yeah, but still interesting.

I'm pretty sure Emma said, "Don't feel stupid if you don't like what everyone else pretends to love." She's a stinking genius, really, and not just because she's Hermione.

I want to know why it is that people are afraid to like what is a little different. I mean, obviously because people will give them the shit I always got about it. But I always knew my music was good. I always knew that while what I heard on the radio was fun and sometimes even good, what I found through music enthusiasts, good magazines, and interesting people was better. If I can write a paper on a piece of music, then it's worth listening to. If it reflects nothing beyond the lyrics--a shallow message--then I'm just not interested. That's good dancing music, good driving music. That's all. And there's nothing wrong with that. Bubblegum Pop is an art all its own, but I wouldn't call it good music.

And here's the rub: I have really cool friends, who aren't shallow (and I don't always use that negatively--only to mean a lack of depth). They have a lot to them. But they are still trapped in this endless, blinded view of what's "cool." I've never really cared. When it came to music, anyway. I guess I fall short of individuality in other areas. But music is one thing I hold dear to me. I'm a musician. I'm a singer. And I'm not going to sing some shit (sorry!) that doesn't make me work, that uses no range, that does nothing interesting with meter or key or rhythm. Jeez. Those people are famous because they're pretty and can carry a tune. Again. An art all its own. But not good music.

And rapping. Smh. There are good rappers. They're poets. They can communicate feelings, ideas, and beliefs through their words. Every word contributes to the message. There will be metaphors (duh, it's poetry) but they're carefully considered. They're not just kind of witty to reel the oblivious audience back in. *Cough, cough Eminem. Holla if you hear me, poets*
Rapping is a really, really cool form of expression that's made its way to kids who have no other way to express themselves. But the little white girls from rural Illinois and Indiana nodding their heads to gangster rap should perhaps take a look at why.

Why is something only cool when everyone else thinks it's cool? Who decides this? Why isn't something cool by its own right? But I guess I do the same thing. I just like the music that people I think are cool like. And if you're the kind of person that finds people that listen to that music cool, then that's what you'll listen to. Whatever. But seriously, from a cultural perspective, I want to know why we have this phenomenon. Why is it that Sperry's which have been around forever are just now catching on? Or why big glasses, which have been a big joke for years, are cool now? Why do we have to wait for other people to think things are cool to think it ourselves????????

I've always been kind of a weirdo. I know that. But in a different group of people, I'm not all that weird at all. In people from more diverse areas, with more liberal values, with an interest in philosophy, and a respect for theology, and who like poetry and canon literature. Those people don't think I'm weird at all. But people who read romance novels, watch reality TV, have more conservative values, and those who are uncomfortable learning about different theologies or interacting with different cultures... those people have always found me a little weird. "Quirky," in Drew's words. That was a nicer way to put it. I have a respect for those people. That is their culture. But I was kind of living in a counter-culture to that in which I was raised. Marshall's culture was contrary to mine, which is kind of an interesting concept.

Culture isn't geographical.

Not anymore. Not with worldwide communication and with long-distance travel. Cars. Planes. So I managed to live in one culture: Marshall, but I represented a different culture: 1111 ____ Street. It's kind of cool from a theoretical standpoint, but in practice it was really hard on me. I was sometimes mean about that culture just because I was fighting so hard to preserve mine. Now I know there's nothing wrong with their way of life. It's just different than mine. It took some space for me to come to that conclusion, though. I needed to leave a while. But now I appreciate it for what it is. I don't want to live here again. But I don't hate it; I just don't fit in.

Okay. I'm going to try to end Word Vomit posts with a little bit of a wrap-up so you or I can make sense of this mess:

Wrap-Up in 3:

1) I'm a music snob because I'm a musician, and my tastes don't usually reflect popular music, although I like it for shallow entertainment. (Again, I don't use shallow like ya'll do. I use it to mean simply lack of depth.) Sometimes I get bitter when people make fun of my music. I know in time other people will start to like it, and then I'll get bitter all over again. I'm a pretty bitter person.

2) I am fascinated by herd mentality. I want to know what popular tastes show us about our society. How does something catch on? Should artists stay true to their style of music? Or should they meet popular demand? It's interesting stuff--fear of straying from the norm.

3) Culture is not geographical. I was my own culture within a culture to which I didn't belong. No culture is wrong or right. They're socially constructed; not innate, which people assume, which makes accepting different ways of life so hard for some.

*Word Vomit: train of thought writing, restricted to line-editing, and sometimes hard to follow. Sorry bout that. But not that much. Because I still post it.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

If a picture can speak a thousand words, then what is to be said for a thousand words? I speak and I speak and I speak... and nothing is said to those who don't understand me. And of a picture--much is to be said--said--for the value of of its communicative value. It communicates to those who understand it. Music, dance, theatre...

all for the sake of communication. To share an idea, a concern, a feeling that cannot otherwise be expressed. Words do for me what a picture does for some. A picture does for me what words can do for some. Anything can reach anyone if they choose to seek meaning. Art is Meaning. And Meaning is Message.

NOTE: Hypocrite literally means behind the mask. Two masked figures representing hypocrisy, and the knives in reference to Caesar. "Back-stabber" for real, friends. I liked it. I don't know whose it is. If you find out, let me know, please.

First Post... wow.

This is my first post in my new blog. I haven't decided where I want this blog to go. I've decided to stop treating my blog like a journal. No more personal stories with clear details. I'll include some life events, though, but I think only for the sake of creative writing. If I want to write about them eloquently, instead of bitchily, then I'll include it.
The title: I'm bipolar. I'm constantly living on the sill. Sometimes I kind of slip out and have to catch myself, and sometimes I crawl back inside. It's like... I'm always on the edge. Irving wanted us to keep passing the open windows. The artist--the writer--in that story didn't. She jumped. I don't want to jump. But I don't want to live as safely as I used to, inside, where I couldn't see the world. To toe the line of creativity and art, I have to toe the line of madness. These will be my stories, my poetry, my prosetry, and some philosophical and theological ideas. For right now, I'll keep this public, but I'll remain anonymous (as anonymous as the nature of this blog allows), and when I feel that anonymity has been breached, or my intentions misconstrued, then I'll move back into a private format, in which I'll maintain the same kind of format.
I hope you all feel at home here. I think I'll still call you my passengers, and I am still the Conductor. That part of me is still alive. But I have developed enough that I need to expand. I need to let more people see me. I need to feel a little exposed. I can't keep hiding behind permissions. I have changed. I am not someone entirely different, but I am a different version of the most basic form of myself that was brought into this earth and solidified in my upbringing. I am growing though, constantly. This is a reflection of the next step in my life. Welcome.