Fault?

"They say the best men are molded out of faults, and, for the most, became much more the better for being a little bad."

We're not all perfect; we're not all angels. And that's okay.
Even Shakespeare said that it was okay - and he knows what's up.

Yesterday at lunch, my usual lunch crew was sitting around a table. During a brief lull in the conversation, my friend turned to me and said, "So, Ali, what embarrassing things happened to you already this morning?" We all laughed, as I am notorious for my embarrassing stories. As soon as everyone stopped laughing she looked at me and said, "No really, I'm serious."

I embarrass myself often, and she had every right to suspect that by 12:30 lunch, I already had three embarrassing stories to tell for the day. And the more I think about it, the more I like to think of myself as charming as opposed to embarrassing. I mean, it may not be entirely true, but it gets me through the day. Everyone embarrasses themselves, but I just kind of blow off embarrassing situations. It takes a lot to actual kill my ego from embarrassment. Not that my ego is big, I just know that I'm human. Jason Mraz fell off the stage yesterday. He ripped his pants in front of the crowd. He wrote a hysterical blog entry about it. His attitude about it was to just smile and wave. He knew that it wasn't a huge deal. He knows that he's human.

We all make mistakes. We all have some sort of regret. We all have things sometimes we look back on thinking "Oh, dear, I wish that never happened." But do we really wish that never happened? After all, we're better people for having been a little bad. Yeah, there's sin, pain, heartbreak, mistake, imperfection, or whatever other words you can think of, but there are also lessons. There is also forgiveness. And I find that by embracing mistakes, imperfections, sins, and heartbreak, I am happier. I mean we all change and grow. If you only have wonderful experiences, do we really ever learn? Can you name anyone in your life that only has good experiences, who only ever does good? It's not human nature. And for the millionth time, I will remind you all: We are all just human.

Is it easier to ask for forgiveness than permission? I think so. I'm not encouraging everyone to go out and commit felonies, but I am encouraging self-forgiveness. If you mess up, go easy on yourselves. Allow yourselves to live and embrace being human.

Sunshine?

"This city's made us crazy and we must get out."
80 degrees one day, snowing the next day. Welcome to Syracuse, NY.

The unpredictable weather has a way of making stressful situations worse than they are. I spent the entire day in the library the other day. When I walked out of my room in the morning, it was hot and sunny - no sign of rain, none in the forecast for the next two days. I left the library about 12 hours later and encountered the pouring rain. To my dismay, I lacked both a jacket and an umbrella. That was the last thing I needed.

The unpredictable weather has a way of making life a little better. I stood in the rain the very next day and looked toward the sky and laughed. I let it wash away everything I was worrying about for just that single moment. Sweet cliché, Ali. It's true though. I felt lighter.

This time of year is stressful for everyone. There is just so much to do and certainly not enough time to do it. I always think the spring semester ends more stressfully (did I make that word up? I'm pretty sure I did) than the fall semester. I'll tell you how we survive it in Syracuse: the sunshine. Seriously, we let sunny days control us up here. My piles of homework watch me from my dorm room window as my friends and I spend time just being outside, letting the sun just soak into our skin. By the time April comes around, it's been so long since the sun made an appearance in Syracuse that we surrender to it.

I think my energy comes back to life along with the rest of the world during spring. It's amazing how much the weather has an effect on how I look at life. I'm not even one of those people that loves sunshine all that much. To be entirely honest, most times I prefer the rain. But Syracuse gets a little carried away with the precipitation that I am just so thankful to feel that warmth.

For some reason, warm days up here are always good days.

Gratitude?

I hear a lot about gratitude every single day. People are always telling me that I should be thankful for what I have because things could be worse. I don't think that that is a good way to look at it at all. Being thankful because there are others in worse positions than I am seems to be an awful way to celebrate life. "I'm grateful because I have great friends and someone else doesn't." Whoa. That's just not sitting well with me.

So I've decided lately that I will be grateful for things as they are. I am grateful for my friends because they are wonderful. And I'm grateful for each and every one of their individual personalities. Every single one of them.

I'm going to be completely honest with you. The blog post about being grateful for good friends is inspired by one friend in particular. So I'm going to focus on that. I have been through a true test of life this week - a test of myself. It's been pretty much a week that I could not handle on my own. And I haven't had to. I'm grateful that I haven't had to handle it on my own.

But most of all, I'm grateful for you. I"m grateful that I was lucky enough to be granted someone who makes me feel worthwhile. I'm so happy that I have someone who can make me smile so easily. I love smiling with you and laughing with you and hugging you. Let's be real for a second: no one's perfect. You're not perfect; I'm not perfect. We both make decisions and choices that our lives would probably be better without. But with us, there's no judgment. There's no lies or sheltering of real feelings. We're open. We're honest. We're real. We're human.

I heard a song today in class that made me think of you. Honestly, it almost moved me to tears because of how much I wanted you to hear these words coming from me. There was not one line that didn't fit.

Thanks for keepin' track of me.
Thanks for givin' a dang about me.
Thanks for sayin' that you love me.
Thanks, just thanks.

Thanks for lettin' me know you care.
Thanks for always bein' there.
Thanks for making me do my share.
Thanks, just thanks.

Can't thank you enough.
I'm high from you liftin' me up.

Thanks for sayin' what you said.
Thanks for clearin' out my head.
Thanks for givin' me hope instead.
Thanks, just thanks.

Can't thank you enough.
I'm high from you liftin' me up.

Thanks, you left me who I was.
Thanks, you showed me what a smile does.
Thanks, you loved me just because.
Thanks, just thanks.

Thanks for cryin' when I bleed.
Thanks for wavin' when I leave.
Thanks for bein' what I believe.
Thanks, just thanks.



I encourage everyone to take a good look at the things around you. Instead of telling you to be grateful for the beauty, for the people, for laughter, for whatever, I'm going to suggest you discover your own things to be grateful for. Let those things catch you off guard. Welcome the surprise.

Faith Regained?

For those of you losing faith in humanity:

On Tuesday, one of the kids in my acting class was hit by a car. Well, he's not really a kid. He's a senior and one of the nicest kids I've met at Syracuse. He's shy, sometimes a little awkward, and besides that, I know absolutely nothing about him.

When he got hit, he was unconscious. No one in the crowd around him knew who he was. Coincidentally, one of the girls in my class was walking by at that exact moment. She doesn't know him well either, but she recognized him, and stopped to help give authorities some information. Then she rode with him in the ambulance to the hospital and stayed there all day and made sure that all of his professors knew about the incident when she got back to campus.

This was honestly one of the kindest things I have ever heard anybody do for someone who was maybe one step up from a stranger.

For those of you losing faith in humanity: you should meet Paige.

She Writes Poetry?

I stand by the open window,
open, although the rain hits my bare skin
where my clothes hang loosely with heavy weight,

and I, too weak to fix them, stare into the night.

Eyes wide, hopeful,
outlined by dark circles that count the sleepless nights,

I wait. Alone.

Shivering, trembling,
but determined to wait.
Ever loyal. Ever obedient.

Hair stands at attention to the cool wind's whispers,
up my arms,
around my neck,
down my spine.

My eyes are watering from the chill,
from the fatigue,
from the hopelessness.

Branches snap at the wind's hand.
Once so strong as part of a tree,
now fragile.
No match for the might of the storm.

Lightning crashes.

Warmth creeps down my arms
in the shapes of his fingertips.
His comfort envelopes me,
his scent strong.

I begin to give in to his warmth.
His arms hold mine tightly to my sides
and his fingers intertwine mine
connecting us.

Slowly, I begin to step back from the window.
To sleep again, to dream again.
To feel again.

Then I see a glimpse of you.
You've finally come.
The shape of your silhouette,
I'd know it anywhere.

I pull away from him
back toward the window.
Toward the lonely comfort of the open window.

But he doesn't let me. He holds on.
He holds tighter.
I start to slip. He holds tighter.

Sometimes the comfort of the rain
is stronger than the warmth of the sun.

But not this time.

A Little Bit of Object Writing?

So this was a creative writing exercise where you write a short story for about ten minutes at a time. Only ten minutes. They can be fictional, but are supposed to be based on your sense memories of the object. I don't know, I thought it was pretty cool.

Pencil:
The tapping of the point matched the ticking seconds on the clock. My heart was pulsing a beat that seemed to control the speed of the tapping. I nervously bit the eraser, tasting the gritty pink crumbles on my tongue. As I rested my head in my hands out of frustration, I could smell the yellow paint used to cover the pencil that was engraved with “Dixon Ticonderoga.” Freshly sharpened, the smell of wood pierced through the paint. I let my mind wander and placed pressure on the pencil as I drew spirals on the side of my test each one becoming darker than the next. I felt the weight of the small writing utensil as it rested heavily in between my thumb and my index finger. I gripped tightly to its hard edges and tried to focus, but my slightly sweaty hands slid down a few centimeters and it became difficult to write. I heard the scratching of everyone else’s thoughts being put down into symbols on white-lined notebook paper, forming coherent essays, as my mind buzzed with scattered thoughts. That tiny object seemed to become unbearably heavy beneath the weight of my unexpressed words.
Ice:
My fluttering eyelashes tried to make sense of the blurry scene that was in front of me. The smell of the crisp winter air cut through my nose trying to revive my other senses. I felt the damp, coldness beginning to seep through the back of my body, slowing bringing me back to reality. As my vision cleared, the slow whiteness deeply contrasted the instant black I had experienced moments before. Pain shot through my spine, the only part of my body I was fully aware of. Soon, I was able to feel the soft touches of snowflakes falling on my face as I lay perfectly still, face-up on the patch of ice. I could barely hear my friends’ voices over the rush of the wind. It felt as if the ice was sticking sharp needles in each part of my body as I regained full consciousness. I breathed heavily in through my mouth, feeling the dry, bitter, icy air, now very aware of the sheet of ice that was not giving my body weight any slack. I lay there helpless, unable to speak, my entire body frozen. I slid my body across the smooth surface, gritting my teeth in pain, causing me to fill my lungs with the icy winter air. The ice grasped onto my exposed skin, scratching it as I tried to regain feeling in my fingers and toes. Everything, inside and outside of my body, was frozen.
Guitar:
I was sixteen when I got my guitar. I picked it up and traced my fingertips along the smooth, dark wood, perfectly polished. I smelled the wood through it’s shiny treatment, which was also slightly hidden by the aroma of the small music shop on Penn Ave where it was purchased – a trace of old, worn-down carpets and the stale cigarette smoke that the owner always had on him. The harsh strings seared themselves into my vulnerable fingertips as I began to play. They vibrated, leaving their painful mark behind in the form of calluses. The instrument spewed dissonant chords, as I had not the slightest clue of how to form actual music with it. I ran my fingers up the strings hearing the spine tingling screeching sound. As I slipped my fingers around the cold, silver tuning pegs, I was able to feel each curve of the guitar. The curves of the instrument fit like puzzle pieces to my own body. I could taste the dry air in the practice room in the back of the shop where I sat perched on a padded stool. I tasted my own tongue as I bit hard in concentration as the owner’s voice rang through my ears, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’ve got a chord.” The sound grew richer as I dug the strings further into my fingers, thinking that if I cut in deep enough, it would make the instrument play better.

Songwriting?

This one has a lot of fun videos for you.

So I'm taking this pretty sick songwriting class. Well it's like a study of songwriters, the importance of songwriting, and how to songwrite, but there is no actually songwriting happening in class. Let me share briefly with you why this songwriting class is "pretty sick":

1. I find that I'm gaining a new appreciation for the art of songwriting and the people who write songs, those who write their own and the ones who write for other people. For example, my professor asked us if any of us had ever heard of Claude Kelly and we all stared at him like deer in the headlights to which he responded: "Well, tell me if this rings a bell...So I put my hands up, they're playing my song and the butterflies fly away. Noddin' my head like yeah, movin' my hips like yeah." Not only did we realize how hilarious those lyrics are when just spoken, but also that each and every one of us loved Claude Kelly.



2. I think it has almost inspired me to try songwriting. What? Yeah, I know. Every artsy kid with an acoustic guitar or a keyboard "tries songwriting." But it really doesn't seem like something that you actually have to be great at right away. And according to the book my professor wrote (which is also one of the books for a class), I realized you kind of just have to want to be a songwriter and know two chords and you are one. How convenient for me. Also, I also learned that sometimes songs just come to you once you become fairly decent. Tom Petty wrote this little diddy in 3 minutes, legit.



3. My professor is wonderful. He's a songwriter and a music journalist and all this crazy stuff. He's really passionate about songwriting and has interviewed all kinds of interesting people and songwriters. Plus, he plays some of his stuff for us and he's good. :) The class flies by so quickly because he's so interesting to listen to. Plus, we have a slightly similar taste in music, which is cool, because I love the songs he shares in class. I'm currently learning one of them on the guitar.



This one was just hysterical:


And this is my professor's award-winning song (I can't help, but feel proud of him because I think he's just the nicest guy ever):


All in all, I'm super stoked I'm in this class. Maybe I'll be a songwriter? Sweet.