Squeedunk

Greetings! I am happy to announce that this blog will be moving to squeedunk.net. I've worked long and hard to get it up to snuff for you guys, and I am very excited to finally share it with you all.  Although Suqeedunk is not perfect (it will always be a work in progress) I nevertheless hope that you enjoy it. For now, Blueeyedridgway will remain active, until the domain expires at the end of this year. If anyone is interested in purchasing it, just shoot me an email. Thank you for all that you do!

-Carly

Roosevelt

As some of you may know--and others may have no clue--my high school (Tulsa School of Arts and Sciences also known as TSAS) will be moving to a new building next year, as well as opening a middle school. Our future home is a magnificent WPA era school that I had the liberty of exploring this past Tuesday during one of the monthly PTSO (Parent-Teacher-Student Organization) meetings. While being able to explore the new building was in-and-of-itself pretty exciting,  I also had the honor of being asked to speak at the meeting about my experience at TSAS. The following is said speech:

–

Hello! My name is Carly Hughes and I am a senior at Booker T. Washington. Haha, just kidding― I am a senior at TSAS, but I imagine you’ve already guessed that much.

I could have been a senior at Booker T., however, because just a little over four years ago I was accepted there as a freshman. And while I imagine that I would have received a fine education had I attended Booker T., I do not believe that I would have become the person that I am today.

In my mind, the distinction between Booker T. and TSAS stems from the manner in which students and teachers interact. And, while I am unable to tell you exactly what it is like to be a student at Booker T., I can tell you that none of my close friends who go there are in a group text with their AP Chemistry teacher. I know that they have never been to their English teachers house for dinner, and I know that they most certainly would never tease their teachers―even if it is in a purely loving and affectionate way. 

TSAS on the other hand, emphasizes ‘mutual respect,’ to the point that it’s probably in the dictionary as a synonym by now. Regardless, TSAS is a place where the teachers care about the students, and the students care about the teachers―something you cant get at a typical school where students are just a face in the crowd, and teachers are just a door with a number. 

The only downside of TSAS is that the more teachers get to know you, the harder they will make you work. Not out of spite, but out of a desire to see you flourish. 

I am currently taking AP Calculous II. As an independent study. While yes, it is partially because TSAS does not offer it as a class, it is primarily a way to challenge myself, and TSAS response to help me do so.

Moving forward I know that the education I have received at TSAS will put me lightyears ahead of my peers, because TSAS has taught me how to think, rather than just what to think. Thank You.

a moment of silence

 If pictures are worth a thousand words, then this post is at least a page. My mind is a whirl, and all I can say is that I hope for more moments like these. 

grownup goodbyes

The distance between my mother and her mother was two decades of angry silence. What closed this gap was something more monumental than a distance being crossed: it was an apology, and a plea to have her mother back in her life, so that her daughter could have a relationship with her grandmother. 

The car I was in when I received a call from my aunt was what closed the physical distance between my childhood and the place where I would become an adult. My aunt was crying and could barely speak, but she managed to tell me to meet her at my grandmother’s house before she hung up. As my breath began to quicken and tears started to fill my eyes, my thoughts immediately jumped to the worst conclusions. When we arrived at my grandmother’s house my uncle led me into the front parlor and told me to wait, as my grandmother was close, and wanted to say goodbye. 

During the wait, my thoughts drifted back to the past few months. In January of 2014 my grandmother was diagnosed with stage four melanoma cancer; it had spread to her lymph nodes and she was terminal. One month later, my mother was diagnosed with stage two breast cancer. Undergoing chemotherapy, my mother had no hair, couldn’t eat much, and spent most of her days curled up in a chair in the living room trying to sleep.

What brought me back to reality was my younger brother. He had entered the front parlor shaking and terrified, unsure of what was going on. When we explained the situation he nodded and looked at the floor, doing his best to hide the tears streaming down his face. As the minutes passed, he slumped deeper and deeper into his chair—closing up on himself, unwilling to acknowledge the sorrow that had filled the room. It was in watching my brother that I realized how fast he had grown up, and how proud I was of the young man he had become. Rising out of my chair, I went over to him and did my best to comfort him. After countless years of squabbling, it was finally time to put our differences aside and be there for each other. 

When it was our turn to say goodbye, my brother and I entered the downstairs bedroom that had been transformed into a hospital room. Between labored breaths my grandmother told us that she loved us, and that she was proud of the amazing people that we had become. She recounted the happiest moment of her life: when for the first time in over twenty years she heard my mothers voice. With tears in her eyes, my grandmother told us how her daughter had called to announce her pregnancy and to apologize. She revealed how the apology was in hope of making amends—so that my mothers unborn child would know their grandmother. It was in recalling this moment years ago—when my mother decided to close the distance with a phone call, an apology, and the announcement of her first pregnancy—that my grandmother made us promise to always stay together as a family.

My grandmother died the next day, and as I watched my mother grieve for the loss of her mother, I acknowledged life as something that is only temporary. While the sorrow that resonated within my heart was crushing, the solace we found within one another made me realize I had become an adult. It had allowed me to recognize the necessity of appreciating the time that I have with the ones that I love, and to never let distance come between us, whether it be figurative or literal.

new negatives

  


If a picture is worth a thousand words, then photography has given me a voice.


–


I am proud to present to you, a small taste of novice film photography.





     

healing hayley

While I like to pretend that I am a full grown adult mature beyond my years with wisdom coming out of my nose, in reality I am not. I am merely a small girl with a big imagination who has terrible puns that never seem to stop and a whole lot of smiles.


In the midst of college-application-senior-year-drowining-in-homework-hell I have to constantly remind myself to breathe, and enjoy myself, because for all I know I could die in a car crash tomorrow. And while that may be a morbid thought, it is a true thought, and one that reminds me to be thankful for what I have and to do my best to make the most out of any given situation.


–


My dear friend Hayley whom I have known since 1st grade took the splendid candids, and I thought I might as well share them with the world wide internet because I am a naive teenage girl and am too vain for my own good. And while the light is low and the noise is loud, she is quite the photographer, especially when it comes to capturing the moment rather than the subject.

David Copperfield - a review

My AP Literature class just finished reading David Copperfield and it was fantastic! My only complaint is that the sheer weight of the book was a tad cumbersome when lugging it around, but perhaps that was just part of the David Copperfield experience. Nonetheless I highly recommend it. Above you will see part one of the timeline I created of all the different plots as the story progresses. The numbers at the bottom are the chapter numbers and the colors correspond to the different plots. Please note the following literary critique/review does contain some spoilers. 

– 

If you were to bite into a cookie that was unpleasantly bitter, your face would most likely contort itself into an expression of disgust, and you would not finish the cookie. Similarly, if David Copperfield did not have the humor that it does, it wouldn't have been nearly as successful. Without humor, David Copperfield is a depressing story about a poor orphan boy and how terrible his life is. Thankfully, while this may be the bare bones of David Copperfield, Dickens' interwoven humor allows this book to become much more. 

Charles Dickens David Copperfield is a 1000 piece puzzle thats full image is slowly revealed chapter by chapter as the plot lines develop. His strategic use of diction doles out only a small piece of the puzzle and leaves the reader begging for more throughout the entire novel.  The intricate manner in which Dickens pieces together the world of David Copperfield quenches a thirst that is both satisfying and addicting.

From the very beginning of the novel, Dickens' over the top characterizations forms a highly amusing picture. In the opening chapter, "I Am Born," the image of Aunt Betsy shamelessly stuffing dental cotton into her ears does well to lighten the otherwise boring scene David's birth. This along with Aunt Betsy's reaction to finding out that "it's a boy" sets the state for the next 600 or so pages that have already grasped the reader's curiosity. 

Dicken's larger than life descriptions glues the readers eyes to the page and forces them to understand what Dickens wanted them to understand, as well as empathizing some of the absurdities within David Copperfield to things within their own life. Whether it is Miss Mudstones purse closing with a "bite" or Uriah's "sliminess," the reader is able to find solace in a buffet of characters that acknowledges and puts a voice to the readers politically incorrect thoughts that are so often thought, but never said. 

The use of humor throughout a book that lacks puns capitalizes on our humility and our ability to laugh at our own mistakes. While it may seem absurd to rent out your spare bedroom to an 8 year old, Dickens uses the Micawbers relationship with David as a way to highlight the absurdities of child labor laws that were highly relevant at the time and places the reader in a situation where they are able to see the blatantly backwards societal norms that still exist today. Although it may seem obvious that Agnes is in love with David and that he shouldn't marry Dora, David is oblivious to this just as so many others are within todays society. #friendzone. This odd feeling of deja vu gives the reader no other option but to laugh, either nervously because it seems familiar to them, or pointedly at humanity and how naive the world is.

It is in this way that Dickens makes the reader feel perfectly sanely insane by pointing out the vastness of the absurdities around them, leaving the reader with a bitter-sweet taste instead of a bitter one, and allowing them to finish the cookie.

margot

Star Fish by Andrew Wyeth

Your subconscious directs you as you turn right, walk through the hallway and climb the second set of stairs on your right. You turn left and then right again. You’re not sure where your feet are taking you until you realize that the piece you're longing for is no longer where it should be. You look around you with worry. Surely they wouldn't have put it in storage, you think to yourself.  The security guard eyes your brisk walk as you anxiously move through the second floor gallery looking for the painting.  Filled with dread, you’ve almost given up hope when you see it across the hall, tucked in a corner. 

How rude of them to neglect you, you think to yourself. Just because someone was painted by a fancy name doesn't mean that they're any better, or that you should have to be hidden to make room for them.

Situating yourself in front of the piece, you relax as the sounds of people fade away making room for the the gentle lull of the ocean that pulls your eyes close.

I wipe the sleep away from my eyes as the room slowly comes into focus. The midmorning sun is streaming though the window—blinding me—as I sit up in bed. As the last drops of my dreams drain I am left within realities reach, and find myself enveloped by the elegance of our world. As I look around the room, the details that are painted throughout our lives captivate me—telling a story without ever saying a word. The whites of the walls whisper their true colors to me; letting me in on a secret that only those willing to open their eyes can hear. The sunlight rushes through the window, revealing its true depth, and its darkness within; shedding light on the shadows of its past, and its hope for the future. The two starfish which rest on the window pane, speak of a sentimental summer’s afternoon. Even the smudges on the window talk; telling the tale of the ocean’s dance whose fingers caress the seaside cabin, leaving their mark in salt.

Mesmerized by the simplistic beauty that surrounds me, time seems to stop. There is no pressing matter to deal with, no situation to settle, and no obligatory obligation. A sense of tranquility washes over me and I feel as if I am frozen in this moment—unable and unwilling to leave its serenity and place the weight of the world back on my shoulders. 

I have no concept of time as I stare out the window and watch the waves playing in the sunshine. Perhaps I have been here for only a few minutes, or maybe an hour or two, or perhaps even a few years—allowing the dust to settle and my body to grow old, as my mind stays young, refusing to acknowledge the things we like to call ‘responsibilities’ and instead relishing in the freedom of fulfillment.

After a short while, or perhaps a long while, a figure comes into my view. While I don’t recognize them, I am overwhelmed with the feeling of familiarity. Enchanted, I watch them as they take out a pair of binoculars, and gaze out across the sea. Except for the wind stroking their hair and pulling their shirt, they are perfectly still. The figure fascinates me, and I observe them as a mother might watch over her sleeping child, enthralled by the possibilities of their dreams. Time passes, and when they lower their binoculars to polish the lenses, my trance is finally broken and I blush, as if caught doing something I know I shouldn't be. By now the ocean has become enflamed by the sun, and as I continue to watch my new friend watch the ocean, I cant help but feel as if I am being watched as well. 

Engrossed in its brushstrokes, you feel a pang of sadness when it’s time to leave. You enjoy the company of your new friend, and even though your legs have fallen asleep from sitting on the floor, and your back is aching from not having enough support, you wish that you could stay—lost in a hidden world where only those who live with their eyes open can know. Sighing, you stand up and steady yourself on the banister, taking one last look at Star Fish by Andrew Wyeth before you acknowledge reality once more.

at long last

Another year goes by as time seems to slip through my fingers. A month or so into my senior year of high school, and I have only just now found time to post these pictures from my summer adventures. College, AP classes, and literally piles of homework await me on a folding-table-turned-desk in the sunroom that I've commandeered and turned into an office. I enjoy being busy, it makes me feel like I'm taking advantage of the opportunities I am presented with; but sometimes I wish I could just rest, and not have to worry about anything. 

My safe heaven pictured in these photographs is a small private island off the coast of Connecticut called Fishers Island. Fishers is a place where I have spent many a summer running around like a hooligan with my cousins, and falling asleep to the sounds of laughter and merriment, that drift though the open window with the midnight ocean breeze. It is a real life fairy tale, and it is the place where I am most content. 

Lady Lucy

Lucy,

As I sit here with Angel on my lap, and her drool all over my shirt, I can’t help but think you should be here, too. You have played such an instrumental part in shaping me into the person I am today. What pains me most is my inability to repay that debt. You were a friend when no one else would be, and a listener when no one else cared. You were more than just a cat, and you will always hold a special place in my heart.

I still remember the day that we adopted you from the pound. While you may have been physically small, your personality was anything but. You immediately came up to us, and made sure we heard you when you said hello. To the displeasure of my mother, throughout the entire car ride home your voice was heard above the layer of excited little girl squeals–beginning your career as a vocalist from the plastic beige cat carrier.

As time passed and our measurements in the door frame became higher and higher, our bond became stronger and stronger. While you have always been an outside cat, and I have always been allergic to cats, that never slowed me down from spending as much time with you as I possibly could. We would have tea together, play in the dirt together, pick up diseases in the sandbox together, and so much more than I can ever recount. I spent my second allowance on a tie-dyed leash for you, so that we could go for walks together. While you hated the leash with a burning passion, and refused to walk more than two feet on it with me, you tolerated my efforts and were patient with me. Every year on my birthday I would make a wish, and every year, I would make the same one. I would wish to not be allergic to cats, so that you could sleep with me at the foot of my bed and snuggle with me if I woke up in the middle of the night afraid of the monsters in my closet.

While my wish never came true in a literal sense, you have always been there to comfort me from the figurative monsters in my life. Through a divorce, a move, and bullies, you have always stayed by my side and remained loyal. We have laughed together and we have cried together. We have even gone for walks together—despite the lack of a leash. We have sunbathed together, and played in the snow together. We have celebrated birthdays and holidays, and we have mourned the loss of lost cats. We have been through so much together, and it has taken your death for me to realize how much time has passed and how much I have taken you for granted. I thought you would always be there, pestering me until I'd give you a few pellets of turtle food when I fed the turtles in the morning, and leaning into my hand when I scratched you behind your ears. You were just a part of life, just as food or shelter is a necessity of living. I never realized what I had until you were gone.

Thank you for being my rock, and for keeping me grounded. You inspire me. While my face was splotchy and red from both allergies and crying, when I laid on the grass next to you and watched you take in the world you loved so much for the last time, you were calm. You were in pain, and you could barely walk; but despite everything, you sat up as tall as you could, and enjoyed the moment. I watched you as you lifted your nose to take in the smell of home, the feel of the breeze on your face and soak in the setting sun one last time. While I know in my bones that you knew what was to come, you were content with the life that you had lived, and you were happy.

I stayed with you until the end, doing what I could to make sure you weren’t scared. You drifted off peacefully, and while it hurt to see the light leave your eyes, I knew that you would no longer be in pain, and after all that you had given me, stopping your pain was the least I could do.

I want you to know that you are loved, and that you shouldn’t be scared, because you will always have a place in my heart, and I will always be there to keep the monsters away. Thank you for everything. I love you.

Carly

Schindlers List - what makes a hero // memorial day

In honor of memorial day, I'd like to not only thank those who have fought to protect our country, but those who go unrecognized as heroes every day. We often forget how privileged we are to live in a country with rights and freedoms that other nations do not, and even though at one point our founding fathers were indeed terrorists they found a nation built on independence and freedom, which I believe is something worth fighting for.  So thank you, because every once in a while, everyone needs a helping hand. 

The following is an analysis on the characteristics that make up a true hero, specifically in Schindler's List by Thomas Keneally (another book I highly recommend). While the following is a pretty straightforward essay I believe there is something sad about turning in a paper and then letting it sit on your computers hard drive until it eventually becomes deleted years later in order to free up space for god knows what; therefore, I am sharing them with you. If you like them, and wish for me to share more essays, leave a comment below, if not, leave a comment below as well. Feedback is always welcome. Enjoy. 

–

When we think of a hero, the names that most frequently come to mind are those in colorful outfits with nonhuman superpowers. Yet we often forget that a hero is not determined by whether or not one looks good wearing their underwear on the outside, but rather if they exhibit specific personality traits that actually make them heroic. While heroism is often overlooked in everyday people, real life hero do exist. Heroism is defined as being brave, selfless, and caring; and it is these traits that make Oskar Schindler, in Schindler’s List by Thomas Keneally, a hero. 

Throughout Schindler's List Oskar exhibits extraordinary amounts of bravery and courage by defying the Natzi Party, and helping Jews. Being that the SS believes that “whoever helps a Jew helps Satan” (Keneally 97) and is therefore as bad as a Jew, Oskar constantly puts himself in danger by helping the Jews. By creating the “Schindler list,” (Keneally 280) which is filled with the names of those who Oskar intends to save, and establishing a “heaven” (Keneally 72) of a factory that “does not [actually] manufacture” (Keneally 342) Schindler faces the possibility of execution if anyone were to find out about his crimes. This action in the face of sever danger characterizes Oskar as someone who is courageous, and therefore exhibiting heroic tendencies. 

In order to be heroic, one must also be selfless and make personal sacrifices for the betterment of others. While at one point Oskar went “to Cracow to get rich” by the end of the book he “had no manufacturing ambitions left” (Keneally 304) and his main goal was to help the Jewish people despite how that would affect himself and his livelihood. While Schindler estimates that he spent over 18,000 US dollars a week for his labor in Brinnlitz, his fortune wasn't his only sacrifice. By moving his enamelware factory to Brinnlitz Oskar had to break up with his beautiful girlfriend Klonowska due to it being a long distance relationship and him moving in with his wife. This sacrifice along with the possibility of him becoming extremely wealthy if he were to stay in Cracow shows Oskars selfless nature and his heroism. 

The most important aspect of a hero that Oskar exhibits is how he truly cares for the well being of his laborers. Oskar was known to have been a “humane” (Keneally 73) “direktor” (Keneally 172) who was interested in the “permanence of his labor force” (Keneally 242) rather than how much money he could make, or how many lives he could ruin with one sweep of his rifle. Rather than abusing his laborers, he gave them the “intoxicating freedom” of being able to work at “half-pace and still survive” (Keneally 311). This kindness furthered the laborers view of Schindler as their “father”, “mother” and “only faith” promising to “never let [them] down” (Keneally 330). Through being kind to those who worked for him, and refraining from taking advantage of them, Schindler exhibited the most essential characteristic of of being a hero, compassion. 

While Batman and Robin make for a wonderful comic series, they aren't real life, and they miss out of the essential characteristics of what a hero really is. A hero is one who acts in the face of danger, who makes personal sacrifices for others, and who truly cares about those that they help. Oskar Schindler exhibits all of these characteristics through Schindler’s List and is therefore a hero.

Catch - 22 an analysis of Nately's whore // the hypocrisy of the bureaucracy

5.21.2015

I have a new favorite book. While I didn't love it immediately, the more I read the more I understood the symbolism and purpose behind every word. Once I finished Catch-22 I was enamored. The way the story pieces together to show how ludicrous war is and how trauma can effect people is astounding and I highly recommend it. The following is a paper written for an independent study (entitled "Classic Literature") that I am taking. While it isn't the most eloquent, and the thesis is indeed listed (to my dismay), I believe that it provides an interesting perspective on the bureaucracy and the craziness or the world in which we live, and therefore would like to share it with you. For those of you who have not read Catch-22, get off your electronic device, head to your local book store, and pick up a copy. You won't regret it. Even if you're thinking "Oh gosh, a book about war?? I don't want to read that," you will enjoy it. It is the funniest book I have ever read, and I can't wait to read it again, because I'm sure I will notice more things the second time around that I failed to notice the first. Thus, without further ado, I present to you, "The Hypocrisy of the Bureaucracy" a paper by Carly Hughes. 

–

While those who have read Catch-22 know how bizarre it is, many fail to realize the symbolism and the method within the madness. Throughout the book, author Joseph Heller uses commentary to demonstrate how Nately’s whore is a symbol of the bureaucracy that is trying to control Yossarian. He does this through having Nately’s whore become murderous at the same time that Yossarian begins to rebel, having her appear more frequently throughout the text as his capture comes ever closer, and having her successfully attack him when he finally submits to the ways of the bureaucracy.  

The murderous whore who is after Yossarin first appears as a symbol for the bureaucracy that is out to get Yossarin when he begins to rebel. When Yossarian discovered that the amount of missions needed to fly had been raised to 80 he had had enough. He “refused to fly any more missions” and “marched backward with his gun on his hip” as to be aware of anyone coming up behind him to try and force him to fly more missions (Heller 393).  At the point when Yossarian begins to cause a ruckus within his squadron, his commanding officer sends him to Rome in the hope that he will find his senses and come back willing to fly the extra missions. However, Rome is the place in which Nately’s whore comes into the picture. When Yossarian’s commanding officer sends Yossarian off to Rome as a way to deal with his rebellion, Nately’s whore is reintroduced and “trie[s] to stab him to death with a potato peeler” (Heller 393). While Yossarian’s rebellion and the reintroduction of the murderous whore may not be a cause and effect, Heller connects these two events in order to symbolize the control being exercised over Yossarian by the bureaucracy. While some may say that this is purely a coincidence, one must consider the clever timing Heller uses to demonstrate the dangers of defying those in control and using Nately’s whore as a way to symbolize this danger. 

As the story progresses and Yossarian continues to defy his commanding officers he continues to have run-ins with the deadly whore. She attacks him multiple times always seeming to be waiting just around the corner ready “to ambush” Yossarian with her “carving knife” (Heller 397, 398). The persistence of the whore and the disguises she dawns (Heller 397, 398) demonstrate the stealth and the relentlessness of the bureaucracy to control Yossarian. From “hiding in the bushes” to “waiting with her steak knife exactly where the plane had stopped” Nately’s whore never appears to give up and nor does the bureaucracy. By having Nately’s whore continue to show up through the book as Yossarian gets closer to succumbing to the bureaucracy, Heller furthers the connection of the symbolism. 

At the point when Yossarian finally gives in to the ways of the bureaucracy, Nately’s whore finally is successful in her attacks. The correlation between Yossarian making a deal with Colonel Korn and Colonel Cathcart and then being promptly attacked by Nately’s whore furthers the connection between the whore representing the bureaucracy. Moreover, one can attribute Nately’s whore’s failed attempt to murder Yossarian to him changing his mind about the deal and thus escaping the bureaucracy. This attribution can be seen as how the bureaucracy had Yossarian within their grasp, but letting him slip away.

Throughout Catch-22 many strange things happen, but none so strange as a murderous whore chasing after Yossarian throughout the final chapters of the story. Yet, within further inspection, the crazy whore had a specific purpose. Though reintroducing her when Yossarian rebells, having her show up more and more frequently while Yossarian gets closer and closer to succumbing to the hypocrisy of the bureaucracy and her only successful attack taking place moments after a deal with Yossarian’s higher-ups Heller users Nately’s whore as a symbol for the bureaucracy. 

green

2.22.2015

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him."

– George Orwell

(Please note that all pictures that feature me were taken by Hayley Davidson)

Snowball 2015

2.14.2015

In the midst of taking the ACT and celebrating my dads 55th birthday the Junior Council and myself threw a winter formal. High school dances awkward and stinky but fun just the same. In a stroke of genius the night before, my dad and I went on a crazy adventure to set up a Photo Booth for willing participates to take pictures with a remote while simotaniously seeing what they're taking a picture of on a computer screen in front of them. These are a few of 200+ photos taken. If you're interested in how we set it up, just shoot me an email, and I'd be happy to help. 

for the time being

1/14/2015

"Is it not late? A late time to be living? Are  not our generations the crucial ones? For we have changed the world. Are not our heightened times the important ones? For we have nuclear bombs. Are we not especially significant because our century is?–our century and its unique Holocaust, its refugee populations, its serial totalitarian exterminations; our century and its antibiotics, silicon chips, men on the moon, and spliced genes? No...we are not and it is not. These times of ours are ordinary times, a slice of life like any other. Who can bare to hear this, or who will consider it? Though perhaps we are the last generation–now there's a comfort. Take the bomb threat away and what are we? Ordinary beads on a never-ending string. Our time is a routine twist of an improbable yarn.

We have no chance of being here when the sun burns out. There must be something heroic about our time, something that lifts it above all those other times. Plague? Funny weather? Dire things are happening. In fact, we are witnessing a mass extinction of animals. According to Oxfords Robert M. May, most of the birds and mammals we know will be gone in four hundred years. But there have  been five other such mass extinctions, scores of millions of years apart. People have made great strides toward obliterating other people, too, but that has been the human effort all along, and our cohort has only broadened the means, as have people in every century. Why are we watching the news, keeping up with the new? Only to enforce our fancy–probably a necessary lie–that these are crucial times, and we are in on them. Newly revealed, and we are in the know: crazy people, bunches of them. New diseases, shifts in power, floods! Can the news from dynastic Egypt have been any different? 

A hundred years ago, Americans saw frenzy consuming their times, and felt the whole show could not go on much longer. These people had seen electricity come and buffalo go. They had settled the country from shore to shore, run telegraph wires across the sea, and built spanning railroads that shortened the overland trail journey from five months to five days. America had surpassed England in the production of steel. Surely theirs were apocolptic days. Rushed time and distance were converging on a vanishing point before their eyes. They could, by their own accounts, scarcely bear their own self consciousness. Now they seem innocent; they sang "A Bicycle Built for Two" and endured their times' moral and natural evils. Since those evils no longer theaten us close to home–neither slavery, civil war, nor bacterial infection–they do not, of course, seem so vividly terrible as our own evils. 

The closer we grow to death, the more closely we follow the news. Year after year, without ever reckoning the hours I wasted last week or last year, I read the morning paper. I buy mass psychotherapy in the form of a lie that is a banner year. Or is it, God save us from crazies, aromatherapy? I smell the rat, but cannot walk away....

The blue light of television flickers on the cave wall. If the fellow crawls out of the cave, what does he see? Not the sun itself, but night, and the two thousand visible stars. Once, I tried to converse with him, the fellow who crawled out of his blue–lit cave to the real world. He had looked into the matter of God. He had to shout to make himself heard: "How do you stand the wind out here?"

I don't. Not for long. I drive a schoolkids' car pool I shouted back, "I don't. I read Consumer Reports every month!" It seemed unlikely that he heard. The wind blew into his face. He turned and faced the lee. I do not know how long he stayed out. A little at a time does for me–a little every day."

An excerpt from, For the Time Being by Annie Dillard.

access carly

1.1.2015

I have been debating Lincoln Douglas Style debate for three years, and this is my debate story.

In 2011, I was in 8th grade. I was nerdy, and wore bows in my hair, but most of all, it's where my passion for debate first started. We had just finished reading The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton when we were given a class assignment to debate whether or not Johnny's act of self defense would be seen as murder in the eyes of the law. It seemed like a fun assignment. While others were coming up with their own reasoning, that may or may not have made sense, I went to the library to use the computer to look up laws about self defense. When it was my turn to speak, I was ready. No one else had bothered to look up facts and I had a secret weapon, a law, stating that murder in self defense was different from 1st degree murder. I was very excited. Because it was obvious that no one could make a sensical argument against mine, my teacher told me to switch sides and start arguing that Johnny was in the wrong for killing. I was rather taken aback, why would I switch sides, when I believed that he was honestly defending himself? My teacher told me that it was a way to open my mind, and that thinking of things from different sides helps us understand where other people are coming from. Reluctantly I did, and I argued that poor little Johnny had no witnesses to show that he was defending himself, and so no matter what his real intentions where in the eyes of the law, it was murder. My ability to change sides so easily astounded me. It was awesome, and empowering to be able to persuade my fellow classmates that I was right, no matter what side that I was advocating for. 

The next year, in high school, I took a speech and debate class. I learned the format of Lincoln Douglas Debate, how to write cases, and how to think on my feet. At my first tournament, I qualified for regionals, made it to state, where I placed 9th. That summer, I went to a debate camp, and debated all throughout the next year, placing 2nd in state. Dreaming of the big leagues I went to two debate camps the summer of my sophomore year, where I was exposed to the world of national circuit debate, a whole different ball game, that I never knew existed. At the National Symposium for Debate summer camp I met Daisy and became aware of Access Debate, which would be able to provide me with opportunities that I would never have gotten otherwise. Since being apart of Access Debate I have been two 2 national tournaments and will be attending my third one this very weekend. I have made friends on the national circuit, and have become a whole lot smarter. I've learned the lingo, and can appreciate a really good debate round. 

I love debating, it is a way to be heard and share my ideas. It helps me problem solve, and think lighting fast, allowing me to find solutions to real world problems, and teach me civil discourse. I went to NSD thinking that I might be able to go to one tournament if we could afford it, but I left with the greatest gift someone could give, a chance. Access Debate has a given me a chance to shine, and to do something that I love, when I would otherwise not be able to do it. I have volunteer coaching, from an amazing, and hilarious coach, who's also a friend; and I've found a niche where I have people who care about me, even though I may not have the best cases or the largest back files. We're a team, and I am so grateful to have them by my side.

content constellations

1.1.2015

On my way back from Arkansas where we were visiting my relatives for Christmas, my father, brother and I stopped on the side of the road to look at the stars. It was pitch black, in the middle of nowhere, and perfect for star gazing. We talked about the constellations, and the myths that goes along with them; my brother told us crazy facts, that may or may not actually be true, and my dad and I took a few long exposure pictures of the stars. 

We were content. 

–

When I look back on 2014 I see a year that has tested my strength. My mother, and grandmother were both diagnosed with cancer. And though I lost a grandmother, I gained strength. Throughout the year I laughed and I cried; I loved and I hated, but most of all, I learned. We're constantly changing, becoming different people and learning from our experiences, and though I went through a lot this past year, I learned a lot too. I learned how to cope with loss, and my anger when, there is no one to be angry with, and I learned how to accept that certain things are out of my control. Overall, it was not the best year, I won't sugar coat it, but it was a necessary one, in order for me to grow into the wonderful young lady that I plan on becoming. 

_

As the reality of the new year steamrolls over me, I'm faced with the realization that I'm going to be leaving for college in 18 months, and it is somewhat terrifying. I need to take the ACT, perfect my essay writing skills, figure out where I actually want to go (that I have a chance of getting into), and a million other little things. Yet, with all the chaos and adventure that is sure to come, for the upcoming year, I want to put my worry aside and enjoy my last years as a kid. 

For 2015 I have two New Years resolutions.

1. be true to myself

2. appreciate those that I love, and the moments spent with them

Whats your New Years resolution?