The Beauty in Better

“And make today the best day yet” was the anthem of my elementary school days.  Every day our principal would make an appearance on our live television program, giving a brief summary of the daily events, and then closing with those simple words.  Of course,  those words meant nothing to me at the time.  I was young, and it was just a catch phrase.  My friends and I even made fun of it, mocking our principal’s distinct inflection and making silly faces to match.  I was much too preoccupied with playing kickball and avoiding the deadly cootie plague that all the boys were inflicted with (how they survived is still a great mystery to me.)

But as I lay in my bed almost 10 years later, those seven words scrolled around the inner workings of my brain.  Sleep was no longer a possibility.  First, why was I thinking about this at such an inconvenient time?  And what did it mean?  Elementary Annalise could have given me the answer.  She would have said, “Make each day better than the day before it.”  But Post-Secondary Education Annalise is skeptical.  Post-Secondary Education Annalise is the worst.

How can we ever  live each today better than our yesterdays?  I don’t know if we can, but I would like to think that it’s possible.  Because if we give up that hope, then tomorrow will only be a today, and we will never grow, and we will never be happy, and our lives will be a never ending cycle of regret and self-loathing.

So here’s how you can change that:

Find something beautiful every day.

This is something that our society no longer values.  Our heads are too molded into our sleek phones to notice the smell of spring or the art of  the precious feather as it dances through the smoggy street.  But if we stop to appreciate just one beautiful aspect of the world we live in, our lives will become exponentially better.  Each day, the world will become more beautiful, and our lives will become that much better.  Beauty opens the door for freedom, liberating us from the drudgery of life.  If we find beauty, then we can love life.  And only then we can make each day the best day yet.

The Ignorance of Bliss (And Other Nighttime Ponderings)

Prepare to be offended; that’s right, Annalise is back at blogging.

Ever since the school district spit us back onto the streets, I’ve actually had some time to think.  And not about German unpreceded adjective endings or related rates or the importance of  characterization in Hard Times.  No, I’m talking about actually thinking about my morals, my goals, what I stand for, life. You know, nothing too important.

Sometimes,though, I think the sun disillusions us.  It shows us everything we want to see.  But when the celestial gods switch, that’s when we start questioning our very existence.  Darkness reminds us that we don’t know everything, and we never will.  Somehow, we can open up to the night and say whatever we want to say because who’s going to step in and judge us?  It’s because we’re all captivated by the beauty of the night.

It was on one of those magically-mystical nights that I was reminded of a lunchtime conversation held weeks before.  “Ignorance is bliss.”  (Yes, even I can have conversations about classy cliches.)  Of course had different views, and of course no one was right or wrong.  But in the cafeteria, I knew I was right (because my opinion is always right.)

I believed that one must be ignorant to think that ignorance was bliss.  Sure, I understood that being unaware of the problems the world is facing would be an easier lifestyle.  It sounds great on paper, at least.  Just imagine a life where we aren’t reminded by the death tolls in the Middle East or the school shootings or the pain of losing a friend to a drunk driver.

Wrap your mind around this thought:  Happiness is the absence of evil or discomfort, which makes us joyful and satisfied.  With ignorance, we won’t know what evil is.  We won’t have anything to compare the good times to, so we will never experience true happiness.  It makes sense in my mind, at least.

But I can’t live ignorant.  I have to learn.  And that’s how many of us are programmed.  We’re on the quest for knowledge. To know more and more and more.  We won’t stop for anything as we hunt for the answers of life.  Knowing the horrors outside our doorsteps makes us appreciate the good times.  And I think I’d be alright being unhappy and alone with knowledge to comfort me.  Because (as many teachers informed me) with knowledge comes power. And lets face it, power is pretty freakin’ awesome.

But, as I lay under Orion’s Belt (yeah, that was a bad constellation to choose) my opinion shifted.  Note, I said shifted, not changed.  Because at night, you can’t see everything that’s out there.  You’re limited to only what’s directly in front of you.  Still, I will continue growing, devouring every bit of information I discover, but I think I’m okay with not knowing everything.

Maybe I’m right.  Most likely I’m wrong.  And maybe we’re not meant to know.

Guest Blog: Old Books Smell Good

http://derekberry.wordpress.com/

When I was in elementary school, the Book Mobile rolled into the parking lot every day around 2:30. Waiting outside in the gravel parking lot, we carried our old books in our dumpy book bags. Bags with vinyl depictions of Power Rangers and Harry Potter. The old bus was outfitted with shelves, a small, cramped desk placed behind the driver’s seat. It kicked up gravel when it pulled up, and we hustled inside, especially when it was raining.

Standing inside the Book Mobile, we stood in a single file line, pressing our bodies into the shelves every time someone needed to pass by. The books we checked out were kid’s books: The Magic Tree House, The Hardy Boys. My mom wouldn’t let me read Goosebumps, because it was too scary, too gruesome. I hated horror books at that age anyways, anything too real. I guess now that’s pretty ironic.

This was my first experience with the library, waiting every Tuesday for the Book Mobile to bumble into the gravel parking lot. They’ve paved over that parking lot now; the Book Mobile sits outside the library, and I don’t know if it visits the elementary school anymore.

When I’m running behind on writing an essay or a column for The Hornet Herald, I visit the library. First, I read. I read funny books by Steve Barry and Ian Michael Black and Lewis Grizzard. And then I take out my laptop, get down to work. It’s mostly quiet there in the library, especially upstairs in the Nonfiction section. Along with the essays on poetry and the biographies. There’s wifi too, which is more distracting than helpful.

Facebook has increased the percentage of turned-in-late essays in my grade by 76%. I made that statistic up—writing blog posts or writing columns, you’re allowed to do that. You’re allowed to make up stories and anecdotes and quotes, because all that matters is the story. And if a story seems true, then truth doesn’t really matter.

After spending so much time in the library, I’ve learned something: old books smell so good.

Even if I don’t want to read a book, I will stand in the aisles, running my fingers on the spine. Sometimes, I go to the place in the fiction section where the Ba’s become Be’s , to see where my work might go. I check to see if there’s any room for more books there, to see if whether I wrote books, the librarians might have to rearrange everything. If I ever am published, I’d likely go to bookstores a lot. I’d sit in the aisles, telling people, “Hey, I wrote that book” if ever somebody picked it up. And we’d talk. Or not.

But if I ever get published and visit the library, I won’t say anything to anyone. I’ll sometimes visit my work, to flip through the pages. I hope it begins to smell musty, the cover get battered, and the pages yellow. Because to me, that sort of wear-and-tear is a distinction. Sometimes, I flip through the books I check out and wrench out receipts from past users, reading the foreign names of people who traveled this journey before me. I wonder whether or not the book made them feel quite the same way. I wonder if this book meant anything to them.

I love the library, because it is like a home I’ve yet to move into.

Sometimes, I go to visit others who call it home. Sometimes, I revisit my favorites, pulling them from the shelves, indulging in surreptitious sniffs. Sometimes, I come with a list and a sturdy face, tracking down books I’d like to read. Other times, I don’t have a list: no names. I just wander around, looking at the titles, bringing home books I’ve never heard of. I’m a biting, critical reader, so sometimes I’ll leave the book alone. Sometimes, I fall in love.

And I hope maybe I’ll be able to find a book with my name on it on those shelves. And I’ll hope someday, some kid will pick it up, flip through its pages and think, “Old books smell so good.”

~Derek Berry is a writer, poet, and blogger. You can find his blog here: http://derekberry.wordpress.com/. He often enjoys writing about the gritty underground of suburbia life and sometimes also about polar bears. He also enjoys entering libraries, displacing the books to annoy volunteer employees.  Derek is working on publishing his first book, The Savagery of Sebastian Martinelli. So check out his stuff, or people will hate you.

Looking Up

As we move ahead in life, we look forward.  We keep our eyes channeled straight ahead of us.  Like horses with blinders, we  forget to look  at everything happening around us, and most importantly, up above us.  There’s so much we miss because we simply forget to look.

Since I can remember, I’ve always had a fascination with clouds.  There’s something about them that has drawn me in.  I’ve spent my life looking up.  It usually ends in me tripping or running into doors and things of that nature, but I think it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

I know it sounds crazy, and it probably is, but to me, each cloud is special.  They all have their own personalities.  Take, for example, my favorite type of cloud, the cumulonimbus.  You know the super huge ones, the mega puffy ones, the granddaddies of the sky.  These bad boys are hardcore.  When you see them, you have a pretty good indication that it’s about to storm.  They mean business.  It’s some intense stuff.

The normal cumulus clouds have a much different personality,though.  These cotton-ball clouds are pretty chill, as far as clouds go.  They just float around the sky, transforming from elephants to wheelbarrows right before your eyes.  It’s better than watching television.  While TV shows are predictable, cumulus clouds aren’t.  You never know what they’ll transform into.  Maybe one day you’ll go outside and see The Last Supper  painted across the sky in clouds. They just go wherever the wind takes them, dispersing and conjoining, appearing and disappearing, rising and falling.

We miss out on a lot of things in life because we aren’t looking in the right places.  I’m blessed . For me, all I have to do is look up.  The sky ceases to amaze me.  Without words it has the ability to speak volumes and touch me in a way I can’t describe.  If I’m ever unsure of anything, I can always look to the sky for answers.  Maybe I’m crazy, but I’m never going to look down again.

It’s Time

Time.  We have clocks.  We have watches.  We have cellphones.  And some of us have sundials.  Needless to say, our society is run on time.

We make appointments.  You show up on time.  We have formal events.  You show up on time.  Football games.  You even come a little early to get good seats.

Yet, why is it that my peers, especially where I live, in the good slow movin’ South, have started to think that when you make plans for 8:00, it is totally alright to show up at 10:00 without any explanation?

I know I’m hypocritical.  Sometimes I slip up and come late, too.  And I understand no one wants to be the first awkward person to arrive.  But to me, there is a difference between fashionably late and rude late.  If a friend is hosting a group and you show up late, the only thing you are saying about yourself is that you value your own time above the host’s time.  And this is rude.  If the host says 7:36, by golly, he or she wants you to get there at 7:36.

And I know things come up which make you late.  You might get off work late, your laundry isn’t done, your grandmother from Arabia is visiting for the weekend.  Whatever it is.  But at least let someone know your excuse.  Don’t just show up several hours late and expect everything to be alright.

Time and time again I see people thinking more highly of themselves than the group.  I’m not saying come exactly on time to everything.  But at least try to make an attempt.  People will think better of you if you do.

The Anime Rant

There’s something about anime books that make kids go wild.  Maybe it’s the cute illustrations of Ying and Yang doing anime-ish things together.  Maybe it’s the classy comments they hurl at each other.  Maybe it’s just the Asianess of it all.  Whatever it is, I swear these kids are freaks (in the nicest way possible.)

Three weeks ago, a fellow librarian approached me and asked me to re-shelve the whole “Graphic-Novel” section of the library.  Apparently this section has one of hardest times of staying organized.  And boy, was it a mess.  But being the lowly volunteer I am, I dutifully spent hours straightening the books and replacing the “KOI’s” with “ZEE’s” and vice verca.

Today I revisited the section since these shelves, my shelves, have found a special place in my heart.  After all that work fixing them, it was almost like I raised them.  My sweet baby cartoon books.

My heart lurched when I rounded the bend…  I had left these books in pristine condition.  Now a library sized  tsunami had attacked the shelves.  It was chaos.  Utter chaos. Again!  Books were upside down, backwards, out of order, and in every other position imaginable.  My poor porcelain heart was shattered into a gillion pieces.

So I pulled up my stool, again.  And I began to pull out books, again.  And I began to seriously hate these anime kids, again.

What gives them the right to put their books wherever they please?  Are they any better than the biography readers?  The biography readers do a great job of putting their books back!  So why can’t Aiken County’s anime fans?!?!  They do realize that people have to pick up after them, don’t they? DON’T THEY? They aren’t any better than the rest of us!  We have to stand up and fight them!

This post doesn’t have a moral to it.  There isn’t some deep hidden meaning that will hit you as soon as you lie down to sleep tonight. And it doesn’t even have a conclusion.  But to all of you anime activists out there, do the world a favor and pick up your freakin’ books!

Mildred’s Rule

As I crouched in the children’s section of the library…shelving  the very books that reared me only eleven or twelve years, I managed to overhear  a conversation between a grandmother and her seven year old grandson.

Now I’ve heard a great deal of interesting stories since I’ve started lurking behind the shelves at the Aiken County Public Library. (I’ve found the first floor is a prime location for it, since people in the second floor take things much too seriously.  Especially in the biography section, let me tell you.)  But this little snippet was different.

The grandmother, whom we will refer to as Mildred, chided her grandson, telling him only to pick the books if he could read the title.  Makes sense, right?  At first, I thought so, too.  I mean, if you can’t understand it, what’s the purpose of reading it?  But, the more I mulled the idea over, the more I had a problem with it.

See, if this little boy, we’ll name him Daiquan (which could very likely be his name), only reads Green Eggs and Ham and No, David!  all the time, he’s missing out on so many great things.  What’s the fun of reading things you’re familiar with?  Where’s the excitement in that?

Like the person I am, I imminently began to analyze the situation and apply it to life.  And this is what I came up with.

If we do things that we understand and are comfortable with, how will we ever be able to grow?  We’ll take all the “safe” options.  We’ll go on safe trips down to the beach where we layout, read books, and listen to the pounding of the ocean.  We’ll date the same safe people, the ones whom we’re comfortable with since they’re in our posse.  We’ll go to the same safe  party colleges where all of our friends go.  We’ll land safe jobs, doing things we’re already confident in.  And we’ll raise our children to take the same safe option we did when we were their age, and hey, it worked for us.

But life, to me, isn’t about safety.  It’s about throwing yourself out there and hoping you come back eventually.  It’s about risks and failing.  Occasionally succeeding. It’s about eloping with an Ethiopian warrior and moving to Azerbaijan to start medical clinics.  It’s about actually living.

And as far as I know, you can’t pass the SAT by studying Green Eggs and Ham.

Connections and all that Jazz

When is the point where an acquaintance becomes a friend?  Is it a moment? Or is it gradual?  How in the world does that even happen?  And more importantly, HOW DO I EVEN HAVE FRIENDS?????

Roughly five days of intense learning.  Who wants to spend their summer doing that?!?  Not me.  I didn’t even want to attend the conference, to be completely honest.  But by the end, I had made a complete 180 degree turn. Or 360, or 90, or something, I’ve never really followed that whole math thing.

I could go though right now and list everything that I learned.  But that would just be ridiculous.  I don’t know if blogs have word limits because I’ve never had that much to say, but I’m pretty positive that Word Press would kick me out for writing too much.  I would go to Word Press jail for sure.

But over everything else I learned, I discovered the importance of making connections.  Whether it be through Twitter, Facebook, blogs, or IN PERSON (gasp), connections are a necessity for success.  I mean, how can you even land a job if you stay locked up in a dark room all day, only coming out at night.  That’s just kinda weird.  Actually, it’s really weird.  And you would be freakishly pale. Yuck!

Throughout the course of the week, I made all types of different connections.  But most important to me were the ones I made with my peers.  I met all types of people there.  But there was a common link.  They all were moderately motivated and pretty dang smart.  It was a great crowd of people to surround yourself with.  It seems like other writers can always connect with each other in a way no one else can connect.  There is a deep bond formed making it so easy to relate with one another.

Its also comforting to know that there are people all over the US that are just as weird as me.  And yes, Colleen McGettigan, I’m talking about you.

This has been truly an amazing experience.  BROWN PRIDE!

The Truth about the Truth

Truth is a lie.

As I sat plastered to my fabricated chair in the audience of C-Span, in a sea of muddled students and some of the brightest individuals in the United States (I’m talking about Steve Scully, Brian Lamb, and Josh Earnest), I had an epiphany. Refer to first sentence.

I’m not one of those people who gets epiphanies all the time.  Believe it or not (and yes, I know it’s hard to believe), I actually rarely come up with intelligent thoughts.  But as we were discussing how journalism has evolved, roughly 184 students (rough estimation here) brought forward the idea that the only way to REAL journalism was though reporting the whole truth (and nothing but the truth, so help me God).  They thought that it’s essential to find a trustworthy, non-bias form of media, whether it be CNN, NBS, DHZXWY, whatever.  And when the station or reporter makes a mistake or adds a different/’wrong’ slant to the story, then you have to switch.  Journalism is designed for the truth.

As I sat there, I wanted to scream. I wanted to stand up and throw something heavy and preferable sharp, maybe even shiny at my peers. (And I’m very sorry to anyone who agrees with them or IS them, for that matter and is deeply offended my what I just said.  I don’t really want to hurt you, I just want you to understand me.)  Let me explain.

There is no such thing as truth.  Three people can be stand in the same room, same time, same place, same everything.  They can see a man kill a marmot, and when they go to retell the story, each of these people will tell it slightly differently.  It’s just how it goes.  You remember somethings, and forget others.  To an extent, even the weird man in the middle of the circle killing the harmless marmot still cannot truthfully say what just happened.  Sure, we can say what happened to the best of our ability, but it still cannot be the truth.

And to the people who limit themselves to one channel, well that’s really lame.  You trust them to bring you the truth, but how do you possibly know that what they say is the truth?  You’re putting your blinders up, so to speak.  In my opinion, if you want the closest you can get to truth, then you need to go to different channels, hear what they are saying, cross reference stuff, do research.  But who really has time to do that?  NO ONE!  So listen cautiously to the information placed before you.

We don’t live in Utopia-ville.  We’re not perfect.  People have opinions.  Things happen.  There isn’t a perfect form of media.  There never will be.  Stop living in your fantasy journalism world where the rivers run with newspaper ink and the clouds read headlines.  I’m right.  Believe me, it’s the truth.

The First Official Day of the Camp with a Long Name

Coming into George Mason’s Journalism and Media Conference, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.  The first official day sure set me straight.

 

We all know the cliche, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”  I hate cliches.   It’s like pouring molten lava into my ears.  It’s that bad.  But I feel like this horrible phrase is the basic feeling I got out of the Newseum.  Walking down those aisles and seeing row after row of incredible pictures (especially in the Pulitzer exhibit) was absolutely inspiring.  The pictures were so caught up in the moment.  Everything was so real.  The emotions.  The people.  The scenery.  The stories.  These pictures could have a greater impact on the viewer than a whole carefully thought out and planned front page news story.  One image.  It was that powerful.

Another part of the museum that really struck me was a part of the Katrina display.  Off to the side of a wall  was a battered up, trashy, outdated news-stand.  Something about it drew me in.  It was pathetic.  Rusting and crumpled, the news-stand seemed to come to life to me.  One day it had stood somewhere in New Orleans.  Happy and peaceful.  Filled with newspaper hot off the press.  People would come by, pick up a copy of the latest New York Times and continue on to the local Starbucks.  That all changed on August 25.  Time froze as the levees broke.  It stood still as the waters rushed through buildings, sweeping children off their feet and ripping families away from each other.  Time stopped when relief help rushed into the city.  And the little newsstand remained.

One of the amazing things about this item was the fact that the newspapers inside still survived the hurricane.  Only the day before, this newspaper stand was filled to the brim with newspapers reporting some story probably not too significant.  No one knew it would be frozen in place and later preserved in Newseum in the Katrina display.  It was so unexpected.  That’s how life is, I guess.  One day the waters are calm, and the next day there can be a hurricane.