Monthly Archives: September 2019

Memory|Stream of Consciousness Blog

To follow up last week’s blog, writing is hard when you don’t have any ideas that you want to use. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a LONG list of prompts. However between classes, work and theatre ventures, the creative writing part of my brain has checked out.  Maybe since I’m not called to rehearsal, I’ll get a burst of inspiration while I derp around my dorm room. Also, pro tip: don’t get paper cuts, because Band-Aids make it slightly difficult to type, even if they are the awesome Avengers kind. Better yet, don’t slice your wrist on the fly rail wire while you’re at work, because not only will your arm will hurt when you type, but your Sweet Ben will have to help you clean it and put a giant bandage on it. There’s no point in living in the past though, onto today!

Actually, I do like looking back at the past; that’s why I take so many pictures and am a scrapbook fanatic. A few of my friends have given me grief in the past for taking so many snapshots. It was a lot worse in high school, but you know what? I barely talk to my high school friends anymore. It’s not because we hate each other or anything; we’ve all just grown apart. I like having albums of photos to look back on and remember the wacky adventures I had with my high school besties. I enjoy having memories captured to reminisce with. I mean, how else am I gonna look back at the “Good Old Days”? 

For my high school/Associates Degree graduation party, my mom got over 400 photos printed to display on boards. After the party, I took the displays apart, but gave the photos a new home. I had recently moved into the former gaming/office room, and decided to line my door with photos. Every time I walk in or out the door, I saw the faces of people I love. Sometimes, they reminded me to pray for someone. Other times, they lifted my spirits because they remind me that I’m not alone in life. Since then, I’ve moved rooms and have half way moved out of the house. Even though that door of photos is gone, I still have all those precious snapshots tucked into an album that I’ll flip through every so often.

There are memories from old scrapbooks that make me remember times with people who used to be my closest friends. Some entries include twinning in Superman shirts, various snapchats from/involving Avery, a screenshot saying, “Antibodies is just around the corner”, playing card games after a black box rehearsal in my living room, and my ticket stub from seeing La La Land with my buddy Micah. Even just writing about those memories has made me smile, but here’s the thing: I barely talk to half of these people anymore. I’ve got memories scrapbooked from old crushes, boyfriends, and friends that turned into not so great pals. However, just because a relationship comes to an end for a sucky reason doesn’t mean you have to completely forget about the good memories you had with that person. You have people in your life for seasons at a time.

The art of photography is very important to me. I enjoy the silliness of taking selfies or goofy photos with my friends, but I also very much enjoy making art through the media. Mom still doesn’t get why I took darkroom photography in community college, but oh man, I loved that class. I was so glad that I still was allowed to use the photo lab during my final semester at Maple. The process of getting a single darkroom print is so long and tedious, but when you get a great shot, it’s all worth it. Plus, when you’ve got fun photos, you can add cartoons on top of them and make yourself crack up at your own jokes. 

I guess the idea of a single print taking a lot of work can relate to relationships. You can’t just expect a friendship to happen. You have to work for it. The thing with friendships though is that it doesn’t feel like work when it’s a true friendship. I used to feel like I had to work extremely hard for my “friendships”. Funny enough, the people I used to break my back to impress don’t have a presence in too many of the photos I hanging up in my dorm room for my senior year of college. Thing is though, those people show up in scrapbooks, journals and photo albums as good memories. So, I can either look at those people with bitterness and/or regret, or I can thank the Lord for the influence they had in my life for a time. We move on and grow up, but living with heavy thoughts from the past is not helpful in your growth process. If you pull anything from this jumbled stream of consciousness mess, hear this: treasure your memories, but don’t let them hold you back from new relationships and adventures. 

Fingers crossed that your friendly, neighborhood red-head gets a creative spark back while battling spanish quizzes. Thank you for reading, and happy memory-keeping. 

 

Until Next Time, 

Abby 

 

WRITER’S BLOCK: Aglet Edition

There are times when I get writer’s blocks. There are different types of blocks: ones when you are dealing with a combination of both lack of inspiration and motivation, and others where you are just lacking the ideas. And then there are the times when you are back to being a full time college student and you cannot make your brain sit down and write something deep. When I get in these funks, I just do word vomit writing on a random topic and see what comes of it. So let’s talk about something everyone should know about: Aglets.

Honestly, the only reason I know what in the world an aglet is credited to the classic Disney Channel show Phineas and Ferb. There’s one episode where the genius step brothers decide to raise awareness for the tiny piece of plastic/metal at the end of shoe laces. The big song of the episode, “A-G-L-E-T” is one that every now and then slips into my brain and won’t leave for a good, long while, even though the episode come out in 2009. In fact, it’s swimming around my head now. Maybe I’ll even dream about it tonight. If you haven’t listened to it ever, go look it up. It’s a bop. 

Aglets are very helpful to those whose shoes get attacked often. I admit it; I am guilty of untying my friend’s shoes from time to time. A shoe attack is truly successful when you are able to get the laces pulled out through the holes that keep them in place. If you’re a poor soul whose aglets have fallen off, or worse, never had aglets to begin with, you’re stuck trying to thread your frayed lace back through its hole. It’s extremely frustrating for the victim of the attack, but slightly amusing for the person who did the deed. 

When I was younger, I had a strange habit of picking at the aglets on my laces. I wasn’t enlightened to the fact the aglet was a friend to my shoe and therefore a friend of mine. Out of boredom, I would pull away at the plastic until my poor shoelace was left in ruins. I would then have to put a piece of scotch tape around the devastated shoe lace to avoid the dilemma of having to rethread a tattered piece of string. Thankfully, I am no longer a child and have learned the ways of the world. Well, at least the ways that involve the end of shoelaces. 

I wonder who the chap was that invented the aglet. This little piece of plastic is something that is taken for granted so often; maybe the inventor was taken for granted, too. I mean, he’s not a person like George Washington or Neil Armstrong that we learn about in history class. I bet he was the kind of guy that got made fun of in high school. He’d get his glasses knocked off or his books thrown across the hallway. All the while he’d think, “Someday I’m gonna prove all you wrong and do something great!” And what does he do? He invents this little thing that half the population doesn’t know the name of and dies without fame or fortune. 

*Jumps onto Internet*

After a quick Google search, I learned that the inventor credited to the creation of the aglet was a gentleman named “Unknown”. I guess his parents didn’t like him very much. Just goes to show you that you can do something awesome for the world, yet everyone still will forget your name when you die.

 

This ended up being a lot more depressing than I ever intended it to be. 

 

Lord, let me get inspiration/time to write next week.

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Until Next Time,

Abby