The End of School

The end of the school year brought busy times. Before I left for home on June thirteenth, I had seven papers to write and four finals to study for. For me, it wasn't hell week; it was hell weeks. Pretty much, when I wasn't in class, I was working. At the same time, I was trying to enjoy my last few weeks with my college friends before school let out--before I wouldn't see them again for three months.

Overall, with the coming of summer, and the end of schoolwork for a while, I eagerly anticipated my return home. I thought I would be returning to what I had left behind last summer--my amazing group of friends here (who would naturally be the same), my room (still slightly messy but home-y feeling), decent food (after spending nine months eating cafeteria food it is all relative), and just "home" (a place without cockroaches). What I came home to a week ago was, in many ways, what I expected and didn't expect. I returned home to "home," to a slightly cleaner room (which I dutifully mussed up), and better than decent food. However, those amazing friends, who weren't allowed to change did exactly what I did--> they came back evolved versions of their high school selvs (I know. How dare they, right?).

How can this have happened? I wondered. I mean, I didn't feel like I had changed that much, if at all.

Troubled, I spoke to one of friends about this phenomenon, lamenting our high school years. This friend had not gone off to school; she had chosen to work a full-time job and stay behind in Findlay instead. She told me that our friendship circle was breaking apart--that everyone was already going their seperate ways and had been since Christmas break. To all this, I reacted in shock and in denial. I knew this would happen, that one day I would be fortunate to keep in contact with even one of my twenty or so close friends, but I didn't think it would happen so soon. Our friendship circle might start to dissipitate next summer, I thought, or maybe even the summer after that. But not this summer, though. Granted, I could feel that things were off. I can feel that things are off. But I didn't and don't want them to be. Not yet, anyways.

Looking back, the seperation started the summer after graduation. That was when a lot of people took up drinking. I'm not going to pretend to be a saint, and I don't want to come off as judgemental. However, I still cannot understand the fun in losing yourself, potentionally doing something embarrassing or studpid, and growing a beer belly. Maybe that's just me. I mean, I told myself that I would not drink in college. It was a personal choice that I made not only for my health's sake but because I couldn't bear to face the disappointment in my parents' faces or past-teachers' and past-friends' faces if they found out. Plus, maybe it's just me, but it tastes bad. If for nothing else, why would you want to drink something that is fattening--that tastes gross? Why would I want that when I can gourge on chocolate cake or pizza?! But I digress, I guess, for me, the biggest transformation freshman year of college came when I joined a group called Crosswalk, or Collegiate Ministries. Until then, I had been involved only in the International Student Exchange Buddy Program, which I made several friends through, and which I will continue to be active in hopefully for many years to come. However, Crosswalk is where I have met my friends, where I met the people I am going to live with next year, and where I found people who made me feel comfortable about being myself. I didn't have to change to be around these people, because they wanted to be my friend for me.

A lot of people think that they will find themselves in college. That this is where they morph into the people they are going to be for the rest of their lives. Having lived in a dorm with incredibly immature individuals surrounding me in my room and in rooms near mine, I pray that that is not true; instead, I would venture to say that college is where people come for experiences that will eventually shape them into the men and women they will be. I don't think that a student's first year of college should leave them completely matured by any means. In contrast, I think college is merely a path leading to the mecca of self-discovery. I think, for me, my first year was exactly that. Yeah, there were a few bumps in the road (for a while, I considered transferring), but in the end, I came out of my freshman year at UC a slightly-modified version of the girl who went there, kicking and screaming, last September.

Another Poem

In preparation and extreme procrastination and because I am petrified by the tornado sirens blaring outside my window, I have decided to post another poem (I swear the alliteration was unintentional). Anyway, this poem went through workshop today and received some decent reviews--though I still hold steadfast to the idea that it is subject to change and has not been rewritten yet! Regardless, enjoy!


THE BOOGEY MAN


I have been called your imagination
—the liar beneath your bed,
behind closed doors.
I am a creature
and folklore has sent me to beseech you.
“Come hither child,” I say.

My body is drawn by you—
hot tamales glaring
muscled sweetarts rolling
laffy taffy tongue snarling—
gobbling—boys and girls.

Beneath your night breath you groan,
eager to escape.
I send you goose-pimples that trigger a shiver
and pray you never learn that

you control me.

And so I draw the shadows near my breasts
—facades soaked in fool’s gold—
while you rest unaware.

The tip of my finger slithers across your pudgy face,
as I lean in.

I whisper, “Wake up!”

There seems to be this great misconception that, because I'm an English major and because I claim to be a "writer" (though that has yet to be proven to anyone), writing comes easily to me. This is like haranguing a hunter for not being able to find his prey whenever he wants. Suddenly, because that person is "supposed" to be an expert in their field, they are inept; they are failures. I realize that I am writing a post that, in its tone, is far more serious than other posts, but, really, people, I wish I could write whenever I wanted to. I wish that I could write and that everything I wrote would automatically be featured in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, or The Paris Review, but, unfortunately, that's not the case (if it was, I definitely would not be wasting time by sitting here, writing this blog!). Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that writing is not something that I can just do. Don't get me wrong, writing is still my passion and it's a major part of my life and my thoughts, but it's not a light I can just flip on whenever I feel like it. I know I've been writing a lot about writer's block lately, and I know that it's a cliche topic for me to write about, but, really, not being able to write puts me on edge (and those who know me personally will testify that I get seriously stressed out anyway). For me, not being able to write makes my body hurt because of all the pressure that is not only self-inflicted but brought on by the extreme expectations of those around me. Yeah, that sounds dramatic. It sounds even a little cliche. But writing has become so much a part of my identity now that I can't escape it. My life goal is to be able to write anything. Right now, I am working on being able to write novels (for the first time in months, I actually looked at the novel I'm working on right now, so maybe that's a good sign). Novels are my passion, and I dream of someday seeing one of mine published (though even novel writing is hard for me). Lately, I've been taking a creative writing class in poetry, and I've been receiving A's, but it's not something I feel terribly passionate about. I like poetry, but am I confident writing it? Do I feel satisfied when I've written a poem? Uh, no. Poetry is to me like constipation is to someone trying to poop (sorry for the image). Same goes for essays and any nonfiction writings, which, to me, is like regurgitating a Chipotle burrito (yeah, not fun). So, when you tell me that it shouldn't take me long to write an essay for one of my literature classes or when you tell me it should be easy for me to compose a poem for my creative writing class, you are slapping a pair of manacles to my wrists, dousing the room in gasoline, lighting a match, and slamming the door in my face. Please, PLEASE, do not tell me that writing should be easy for me, because I will slap a pair of manacles on your wrists, douse the room in gasoline, light a match, slam the door in your face, and watch you burn. Thank you.

It's Been a While

Sorry that it's been so long since I've posted last... taking eighteen credit hours is like rolling around in gasolene and hoping no one lights a match. I don't have too much to report on (ha! I say this like I have time to report on something even if I did); however, I do have a poem for everyone. I wrote this poem for my creative writing class and my professor gave me an A on it, and I received good peer reviews, so I guess it's decent enough to be revealed to the public. I would like, however, to caution you, because it has not been rewritten yet, so it is subject to editing (and is currently in the process of being edited)! Anyways, here it is! Enjoy!

"JUDAS ISCARIOT’S LIPS"


I have become scaly,
chapped with all my lies.
Our face is sober,
and I do not give us away.
We sit next to him—
the one I betrayed,
and I continue to scald him—
to burn his skin—
as we pretend.

Soon it will be over.
The swords I cover have dulled.
An innocent man will die upon the cross.

I am grainy,
saltier than sweat.
He walked on water,
cured lepers and the blind.
Fool! Can’t he see?
We bring him death.

The three kings brought him:
gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

And so I spit acid.
Soon it will be over.
We have sparred, and we have won.
Or so we thought...

And there it is—
in his lips
— in his eyes—
he knows of my betrayal—

Shh! He speaks.

Switchfoot

*WARNING* please step away from your computer before you read the following if you are prone to vomitting:

Well, this really isn't that disgusting. I just feel that I need to warn all of the concert enthusiasts out there that I am about to divulge content about myself that not only is highly embarrassing to me but that may well make music fans sick. So here goes... I, Chelsie Anne Bryant, have only been to two concerts in my lifetime. And, sigh, the first one was Nsync--the world gasps (imagine me ducking away from all of the blows concert-goers are pelting me with right now). BUT! In my defense, my second concert--the one I am slyly segueing into telling you about--was a Switchfoot concert.

Last Friday, I attended my second (well, first depending on who you're talking to)real concert. Opening for Switchfoot was Emery (a band that likes to exercise their lungs) and Athlete (a great British band who now dominates my iTunes). Our seats (standing space technically) were in the second row, and I could (if I wanted to, so I did) touch the lead singers of the bands. It was incredible.

I have no musical talents or knowledge whatsoever. My favorite bands include Damien Rice, Coldplay, and Joe Purdy. I like their sound and their lyrics. I can't pretend to know what I'm talking about and criticize the bands I heard, so all I can really say about what I heard/saw is that I enjoyed the music.

Really, that's all I have to say. I know this is ending abruptly and that, again, there was really no point to this post; however, as I am still suffering from that soul-stealing disease that makes the literary world tremble at its wake (also known as writer's block) this is really all I can squeeze out for now. So, I guess, in the words of Athlete, "Would you like a cup of tea?" ;)

P.S. If this is your first time reading my blog, please see the earliest posts, as they were before I became addled by disease.

I Love English

Let me just start by saying that I love English. I don't think that I could've chosen a major that fits my strengths and interests better. That said, I don't like science and math. Don't get me wrong, it's great if those are your strengths and interests, but, for me, they are my weaknesses. I try to avoid them at all costs. For intsance, the extent of my science experience here at UC has been astronomy-- a course that requires memorization skills, which I have, but no application, which I don't have. Astronomy is not an easy class, please don't misunderstand me. I had to memorize at least thirty pages of notes per class, which is a lot for anyone. I took astronomy simply because I knew it would not involve me doing math or any labs. I have yet to take any math classes, because, like the sciences, I am doing my best to avoid them. Let me explain, math is to me like Columbus was to the Native Americans--it has the power to bring down my entire civilization via disease, warfare, and slavery. In short, I contract measles and die because my immune system can't handle it. And, to make this a complete allegory, when I can no longer avoid math, I'm going to be scalped.

Now let me explain my true-love, English. Yes, I am married to English, and we are irrevocably in love. He has the most interesting things to say, and he makes me happy. So there. It's out in the open now. I LOVE English (imagine me standing outside his window with a boombox on my shoulder, singing some cringe-worthy song), and I could never take the step down of majoring in something else (no, I am not challenging all of you other majors, so chill... I'm just saying that you wish you were me ;).)

Have We Forgotten What's Important?

Today is Easter, so, naturally, I should be blogging, right? Well, my parents and sister are in Oxford (no, not England, Ohio (I know, big disappointment, right?)) right now, dropping my sister back off at Miami (no, not Florida, Ohio (I know, big disappointment, right? (they just keep coming (also, do you like the quadruple parenthesis? I do...)))). She, like several other friends of mine, have school tomorrow. The universities--being the steeples of erudition (that's right Mrs. Blankenship, I'm using an English 12 vocab word!) that they are--decided to start school on the Monday following Easter. There are only two possible reasons that this can be attributed to: 1. Either the scholars forgot that Easter is probably the most important holiday and that Christians would be celebrating it with their families today... maybe they didn't think about the fact that, instead of spending time with their families, students would have to be travelling back to school today? or 2. They realized this and didn't care. Honestly people, if number two is actually the real reason for making students return to school today, then that is ridiculous. Especially when you consider that students get cake holidays like (and I say this with respect) Martin Luther King Day and Presidents Day off. Seriously. What does it say about society when we honor days like these, but we can't take time to honor someone who died for us? SERIOUSLY. Anyways, You will have to excuse me for only being slightly perturbed with the idea that, instead of spending Easter day at my Grandma's house with my entire family, I am sitting at home, writing a blog while my twin sister, who I won't get to see for three months, is being taken back to school. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, fight the power? No. What I am trying to say is that, as a society, we need to get a better perspective on what is important. Hear that colleges?

Also, I would like to say hi to my Aunt Judy and Uncle Doug, who I just found out are avid fans of my blog. Being a little gangsta (I mean, I go to Cincinnati, and I'm an English major... it's how we do) that consists of a big fat, "Holla!"