Obsession

Right now I sit in my room with my books.

The most prominent feature of my bedroom is my bookshelves, it always has been. I collect books that I read, books I have read, books I want to read and even books that could be a good reference in the future. My love of books borders on an obsession. Books hold all the knowledge I could learn in a lifetime. Books hold all the adventures a gal like me could want, and I can still remain in the comfort of my bed.

One of my first memories revolves around books. I snuck into my parents’ library and looked at all the big books I would one day read. I pulled out a leather bound tome and flipped it open to see a black and white illustration of a sea creature and ship. Now that I look back, I know it was 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne, but back then it was the physical embodiment of adventure.

As I look upon my books I feel a warmth spread through my chest and radiate outward. The warmth is like a small sun burning from my core that is ignited by the written word. Every individual book I own represents a certain time in my life, a certain decision or a certain event. The books were always there when I needed them. I realize as I type this it is clear that my love of books is indeed an obsession but I do not care. I also realize that the comfort I get from inanimate objects that are simply tree pulp dried and pressed with squiggly lines is probably misplaced. It is sad that the warm feeling inside is not triggered by anything or anybody else but all I can say is that all of my books will stay with me. It is an obsession because I collect and hoard my books; I treat them with love. When traveling my first concern is for the physical safety of the books I have brought. Now I know what some people say, they say that I am not so different, but let me ask you this. Have you even saran wrapped a book to keep the corners neat? My obsession is not detrimental to me, it expands my mind.

Knowing that a book is at hand to inform and entice is comforting. To me a book is not just an escape from boredom but a prized life tool. With the right book you can learn what ever your heart desires. With the right book you can feel any emotion without the mentally scarring damage that would come if you were just like a character in a story. For Example my favorite book is The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde, but I could not imagine the distress someone would be under if they knew what their soul looked like. Dorian Grey finds out because his portrait ages and he does not. By the end Dorian’s only remaining friend, Lord Henry, is not the kind of person I would want around me. He is superficial and vulgar just for the reaction.

For me it is good to touch on these strong emotions without having to dwell or live in them. In many ways reading fiction allows me to stay grounded because the extreme stories I read put my life in perspective.

In the end, I hope my collection of books reflects my desire to be a well-rounded and well-versed person. I want it to show insight into me just like the library at my Great Grandmothers house does. Even though I have never met her I feel a connection when I fall asleep next to the shelves she filled. She chose every book on those shelves and they represent her lifetime. Leaving behind a beautiful library would be leaving behind an important part of myself, a way to make myself immortal. I do not think there is a person on this earth who has not thought about their legacy. After all, men want their family name to continue on through the birth of a son. Is my desire to leave a library as a legacy not so different?

Assignment 1

The River

            I’m standing at the very beginning of the path. Where the concrete meets the gravel of the parking lot. I have just stopped by on a sunny spring afternoon. Ahead of me, the path winds downward towards the river. I walk towards the river. As I walk I can hear birds chirping in the air, I can hear the leaves of the tall trees blowing in the wind, I can hear the rushing water as it flows underneath the bridge. As I come towards the water’s edge, the path turns under the bridge to follow alongside the river’s banks in a curvy, parallel sort of way. Before I turn to follow the path, I stop for a moment to watch the water. After a few seconds I turn and begin walking down the path once more. I am walking slowly, making sure not to rush to anywhere in particular. Today I am just out to enjoy the scenery and see what may happen along the path. I continue strolling alongside the river. As I walk I notice all the dead leaves scattered across the ground. Occasionally, the wind sweeps them up in to the air and carries them to a new resting spot. I can now hear the sound of a woodpecker nearby. The sound of its beak pecking into a tree pierces the air, taking all the attention away from the other noises I had been hearing. But the sound doesn’t distract me from the bench I spot next to the river’s bank just a few yards in front of me. I walk towards the bench, brush off some leaves, and sit down.

            As I am sitting on the bench, I feel suddenly alone. I feel as if I am sitting on the only bench left in the world, and that there will never be anybody else to sit there once I leave it. I sit for a while, trying not to think about anything in particular. I decide I’ve had enough sitting, and so I begin to walk back down the path towards where I came in. As I walk down the path, I feel regret for not staying on the bench. I feel as though I’ll never come back to the bench, never walk next to the river, and never get to have a moment like this again. I try to tell myself that I’ll make it back there someday, and that this moment won’t be lost. But inside I know that this will most certainly be the last time I walk this path. I know that once I reach that end, where the concrete meets the gravel, everything will be over. I know that this will be the last moment I have with her. As I realize this, the wind suddenly feels cold, the river’s flow seems to grow into a lethal rage, and the leaves on the ground act as a reminder of just how easy things can come and go. As I hold her hand, I try to keep her from walking so quickly, hoping to save what time we have left, but she pulls me along. I want to say something to save this time, but I know that she’s made her choice and there’s nothing I can do about it. This place I had at first found to be a welcoming spot to take her on a sunny spring afternoon now feels like the last place in the world I want to be.  We are now at the end of the path. Before walking off of the gravel, I let go of her hand. She stops and looks back at me. I look her in the eyes, smile, and she smiles back. But it’s an empty smile. The last smile of hers I’ll see. I step off the gravel and walk towards the car. As I open the door to get in to the driver seat, I look back at the river. It now seems so far away. It would be the last time I ever walk that path, and the last time I ever held her hand. 

1. What has been your favorite course of study in or out of school? Why?

My favorite course of study has been ceramics, the hand building class I had last semester in particular. I’ve always been interested in the arts and have always been passionate about it. This ceramics class introduced me to a medium that I had never used before that I fell in love with more than anything else I have created with.

2. How many pages was the longest paper you have written? Did it include endnotes and bibliography?

Ten pages long, and it did include endnotes and a bibliography.

3. Which was your favorite paper? Please tell us about the topic in a couple of sentences.

Senior year in high school I wrote a short narrative about memories I had of my mother. It was a short autobiographical piece that described a musician that has been played in my household my entire life, and specific memories I have of growing up with his music.

4. Is there a particular kind of writing you love to do?

I love to do descriptive writing, I feels especially in tuned with my senses and the way in which I interact with the world, and enjoy putting that into words.

5. Which books have you read lately: art, fiction, non-fiction, sci-fi, poetry, environmental, film? Any comments are welcome.

The most recent books I have read are The Road, Middlesex, and The Stranger.

6. Which artist or writer really impresses you? Why?

I’m especially impressed with Egon Schiele. I find his interpretations of portraits and figures especially fascinating in the way they convey an emotional rawness through the texture and style of his work. I am also impressed by his self portraits, and the many different styles he portrays himself in.

7. What is your main interest besides writing, art, music, (i.e., the humanities)?

I love to cook and bake, especially for friends.

8. Please describe briefly an article in a newspaper or a magazine that got you thinking lately.

I recently read an article about an orangutan that had developed a smoking habit from observing people smoking in the zoo. I found this interesting because it reflects human and animal nature to imitate and react with what occurs around us.

9. Which recent cultural event has really impressed you? This can be a museum, a concert, or anything like that, but also a sports game (if you consider this a cultural event, for which there are good reasons).

I recently went to the Denver Art Museum with Kim Dickey for my ceramics class, and the marvelous mud exhibit was especially impressive and inspiring. It was also really interesting to be given a tour by one of the featured artists.

10. Is there another, non-cultural event that has affected you deeply.

Recovery from illness, my step mother’s stroke in particular.

11. Please share with us a thought or an idea that really widened your intellectual horizon. If possible, give a source for this idea so that those who are interested know where to go.

The study and art in food has recently introduced me to a new way of thinking about art and it’s appeal to the senses, and what in fact defines art.