Finally, finally

IT'S SNOWING!

I felt the need to mention that because it's Christmas Eve. True, it's not one of those big-flaked, merry snows, just a fast flurry, but it's just what I needed to push me over the edge into Christmas mode. I've been in finals mode for so long that when I finally relaxed, it didn't feel one bit like Christmas. But with a pie in the oven for dinner tomorrow and snow in the skies and Bing Crosby playing, I'm finally, finally in the holiday mood.

I've never had a busier semester. My friend Peter asked me several times if I was okay ("People don't ask other people if they're okay often enough"), and I had to reassure him that was fine, just running myself ragged. When I first got to college, it was quite an adjustment, but more of a growing-up and social kind than an academic one. This fall was the first time that school kicked my ass. And the best part is, I kind of enjoyed it.

Oh, I can't say I completely enjoyed all the late hours, the many classes I missed, collapsing on the couch at the end of the day, too tired to even cook. But, strange as it may seem, I really enjoyed what I was learning. Shocker, I know. I felt challenged, pushed beyond my limits, for the first time in college. But what my professors were teaching me was just so interesting that I wanted to go to class. My Walt Whitman seminar was truly phenomenal; BiSci opened my eyes to what I need to do to make myself happy (this was the lab science where pasting leaves on a mason jar counted as class); Old English was tough, but fascinating; and of course, I enjoyed my first fiction workshop with graduate students (even though there were days when I felt like the stupidest person there). I ended up keeping half of my books at the end of the semester because I wanted to go and reread Leaves of Grass and Coetzee's Summertime.

The "higher" part of higher learning came when I realized I was connecting everything in my classes. I quoted Whitman and commended his style of living in my BiSci journals, I used my German to help me translate Old English, and in turn used my Old English to help me in Early Brit Lit. That, to me, was the most rewarding part of the semester: that I could actually use what I was learning. It was my first semester of graduate classes, and I can now say that I think I'm really going to like being a graduate student. The thought of being a professor, never an option on the table before, has crossed my mind several times in recent weeks, and it's weird that I don't hate the idea. In fact, I kind of like it.

UPDATE: The snow is now large-flaked and merry, and sticking! How perfect. Hope my mother gets home from errands okay. It would be a shame if she died on Christmas Eve. (To put things mildly.)

It's been a learning semester in more ways than one, but I won't go through it all now. I'll just wish you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, or whatever else you celebrate.

Oh, and Life Lesson #66: Don't wait until December 23 to buy your tree, if you celebrate Christmas. After the epic Quest for the Christmas Tree yesterday, spanning three stores, an allegedly creepy Santa, and a grumpy father, I have given my parents express permission to get the tree before I come home next year.

Or else you find trees barely your height (and, for the sake of this lesson, you are extremely short).

Or massive trees that no one can lift.

And then you start getting ridiculous because there are no trees.

And your father is unamused.

Also: Neil Diamond's Christmas album NOOOOOOOOOO! Must... change... song... In the words of my sister just now, "You know, I don't really like Neil Diamond, but I consider this to be his most horrific work."

Then, "It doesn't even sound like he's singing; he's just got a sore throat or something. Or he's a drunken pirate."

After a year away, it's good to be home for Christmas.

Papers, papers, papers

I'm with you in Rockland
     where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
     where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
     where you're having as much trouble writing papers as I am
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I need a glass of wine
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I settle for some yogurt and granola instead
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I'll have to stay until I write 6-8 pages about our chumminess together in Rockland
I'm with you in Rockland
     where DON'T YOU FEEL ALL THIS COMRADESHIP WALT WHITMAN WOULD BE SO
     PROUD
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I give up on this paper and move on to an analysis of moral instruction in Wycherley's The
     Country Wife instead.
I'm with you in freaking Rockland
     where I realize that there is no moral instruction in The Country Wife and move back to Rockland
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I'm not getting up from this computer again until I'm done one of these papers
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I'm Facebooking about my despair instead of writing
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I'm wondering, is Rockland still around? What kind of a place is it? Must Wikipedia it for
     "research"...
I'm with you in Rockland
     where NO DAMN IT NO WIKIPEDIA RESEARCH JUST WRITE YOUR PAPER
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I'm grumbling and finding the dark chocolate hidden in the cupboard
I'm with you in Rockland
     where I feel like I'll be until the sands of time have worn away every last stone in Rockland, let
     alone me and this damn paper and the professor I'm writing it for

Soooooo...as you can see, finals week is going well.

   

A memorable time

And so, it's been a summer.

This may seem slightly premature, seeing as the actual season doesn't end for another month, but it definitely feels like the end of summer. The weather's changing, I start school again next week (! in America!), and there's already a tree in our backyard whose leaves are beginning to change. I warned it to stop, but it paid no attention. Mark my words, that tree will rue the day it was planted.

Brandon (remember him?) is ready for it to be fall, but I'd like about two weeks more of flat-out summer. It was a long summer for me (I got back from Germany in late April), but I spent a lot of the glorious weather working in an office (there may or may not have been a gleeful "I'm free" dance when I was done). I'd like about two more weeks of heat so I can get in the pool, sunbathe, and wear tank tops to my heart's content. After two weeks, we can commence with the fall feeling. Please and thank you.

That said, it's been a memorable time. It was the summer where "yolo" made almost anything acceptable. It was the summer that I started driving with the windows down. It was the summer that even if you had just met someone, it became perfectly acceptable to hand them your number and ask them to call you, maybe. It was the summer that I truly appreciated Americana, in all its ups and downs and slightly hicky glory, after a year away from it. It was the summer that I got my first-ever real job, and the summer that I really started writing, and the summer I turned 21.

Most of all, it was the summer that I realized how much I've changed. A lot has happened--some good, some bad, and maybe someday you'll know it all. I hope so; it's a great story. All you need to know for now is, I'm proud of the way I handled it all. I would have done things a lot differently a year ago.

I'm happy that I'm settling into my 20s so nicely. It's a place I'm starting to be really comfortable at, and I feel like I could have been here for several years by now. I'm looking forward to it. And there are so many things to look forward to this fall! I was worried that after I returned from Europe, everything would seem dull and bleak. But I'm excited for everything new under the sun. I started packing for school yesterday; it's the first time ever that I've wanted to do it that early. But I'm ready to go back. I like things somewhat settled.

 But, if you have some time before your summer ends, listen to Mumford and Sons. Brandon burned me Sigh No More last night, and I listened to the whole thing in the car this morning. I never realized how perfect it is for the end of the season, especially if you're in a conflicted, slightly melancholy mood. It's so full of defiance and hope and wistfulness; it's great for that unsure between-seasons feeling.

Oh, and go see The Dark Knight Rises, if you haven't already. Call me crazy, but I liked it even better than the second one. Slightly predictable, but it makes up for it with how astoundingly awesome it is. (Astoundingly. I should rename this blog I Like Adverbs.) Forget Fatih Akin, Christopher Nolan is my new favorite director. Plus, it's one of those movies that is ever so much more epic on the big screen, not in the least because it was filmed partly in IMAX. I've seen it three times now, which is the most I've ever seen anything in theatres, and I still get something new out of it every time I watch.

Or, as an alternative, this also looks excellent.

Whatever you do, and even if you didn't take a vacation, get the most out of your last days of summer. There's always more to be done, but for now, I'm fixing a glass of Porch Swing and listening to The Cave one more time...or maybe two...

Stay and save my life

Just a quick post for this evening. I'm packing up for the trip home from Maine (10 hours in the car tomorrow, woohoo!) AND trying to get an internship application done AND thinking about going out for a quick goodbye drink with some of my new friends, but I've wanted to share this essay with you for a while. It's written by Charles Warnke, a fairly young-looking writer living in the Bay Area of California, and it's been circulating a lot on the Internet lately. It's one of my favorites--a sardonic love letter written to the readers of the world, the real geeks among us, and for that reason it's addressed to me. Every bit of it is true. It's romantic and heartbreaking and sensual and disillusioning and thought-provoking and it stings in all the right places.

I should add that the last line isn't Warnke's; someone on Tumblr added it. In my opinion, it's an improvement.

"You should date an illiterate girl.

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life."

A moment of pause

 And now for something completely different.

My last entry was difficult to write, to say the least. Actually, the writing part came easily. There was a lot bottled up there, and it came out in a surprisingly verbose manner. (That's usually what ends up happening--for me, anyway.) The hard part was thinking about it after I posted it. Was it unfair to one side or the other? Should I bend to the loyalties of my school, or to the people who said they didn't completely agree with me? I had a few nights of tossing and turning anxiously in bed. In the end, I kept it the way it was, because I didn't know what else to write. There's just too much to say about the whole thing, and I feel like I said what I could--what I was qualified to say.

New evidence will continue to come out, and who knows what time will tell. A letter from Graham Spanier, further allegations--these will all change opinions and the general feeling about the whole situation. At that point in time, those were my feelings. They were difficult to write, but write we must, for I could not be silent any longer. At some level, it feels like a cop-out, in many different ways. The part that troubles me the most is the words against Joe Paterno, not because he may be innocent, but because he's dead. He can't defend himself, and to me, there's something quintessentially wrong about crucifying a man who can't defend himself. I think a part of me will always be troubled about that.

 And now, we move on to some interesting bits I've perused lately. (Sorry, there really was no great transition between Joe Paterno and a list of cool stuff.) This video, featuring Dr. Neil Degrasse Tyson, will blow your mind. Well okay, I don't claim it will blow your mind, but it will give you a moment of pause, which might be all you have time for.

And, it features one of my favorite songs to boot, the Cinematic Orchestra's To Build a Home. I've always thought of that as a sad song; this is the first time I've thought of it with some kind of hope as well.

While we're on videos, this cracks me up:

 See 1:01, at the copy machine? I make that face when confronted with a plate of cookies, too. And I love Sesame Street for adapting to the new generation.

And, while we're on videos AND overplayed songs, the makers of this claim that everyone has done it. This may be true for guys, but for girls it isn't. When this song comes on, every girl I know starts up: "Oh, this song is EXACTLY what happened between me and my ex-boyfriend/lover/hookup!" And then the story proceeds, even if it has absolutely nothing to do with Gotye's lyrics. I think we're all just looking for an excuse to talk about our exes.

But, for guys this could be very true.

In her latest blog post, Orangette pointed out this essay as a sterling example of summer, and I agree. It's a bit dense, but worth reading through. It'll make you feel intelligent and literary, and it'll simultaneously make you feel like you want to sit out on your wrap-around porch, drinking this and enjoying the twilight. Accomplishing both those things in one essay is not an easy feat.

I don't want to get married or settle down or find an ordinary 9-to-5, I just want to do this.

 Or this. Denise was in grad school at Penn State during my earlier undergrad years, and although I never met her directly, our paths crossed several times. She wrote a great article for Salon.com that underscored her talent (and made me go, "Really?! She was married to the Black Keys's Patrick Carney? Really?!). I've read and reread it, it's just so darn interesting. Good for her.

I've been cooking somewhat lately, which feels great. This was delicious. This was also great, and incredibly simple, AND Katie's website is awesome--I'll blog about that later. If I were still home, I could really go for this adorable peach pie with the lattice top. I've never made a lattice top, but the lead photo alone leaves me with the insane desire to try one. Hopefully mid-August isn't too late for fresh peaches? If so, this is also tempting and summery. I'm all about simplicity in the kitchen lately--summer just screams simplicity surrounding food. (Check out that alliteration!)

I'm not crazy about the food at camp, but the other day the kitchen made these crazy good bar-cookie-thingies that I couldn't quite define. "I think they're a cross between bar cookies and seven-layer bars," said one of my employers as she tucked into a second helping. That lead me on a search to these gems (although this recipe also looks pretty good). I didn't feel like going out to the grocery store, so I made a few swaps out of necessity and preference (almonds for the pecans, peanut butter chips subbed in for some of the butterscotch, a sprinkle of salt instead of salted butter) and they were still a hit. I made a batch for the nurses at the hospital, but alas, there was no chance of them even getting to the hospital. One word of warning, though: wait until they cool. No matter how good they smell fresh out of the oven. A crumbly tongue lashing awaits you if you eat them straight away. I speak from experience.

Oh, and use slightly more graham crackers than she calls for. One can never have too much graham cracker crust.

I was looking up ways to donate to charities and found this great website. It's a great way to make any sort of event--a 5K, a party, anything!--a cause. I'm considering using it for something... Not quite sure what yet, but something.

A TV show about podunk Canadian Muslims? On Hulu? This intrigues me. Enough to watch it? Time (and boredom) will tell. Eh? (Because it's Canadian. You know. Eh.)

Major headlines about my school aside, I think it's really cool that a few students get the opportunity to cover the Olympics. Makes me almost wish I was a journalism major again. Almost. (And while we're on the Olympics, can I just say how sad I am that I'm at camp and can't watch them? The last time the summer Olympics took place, I was on wisdom teeth-strength narcotics that enabled me to stay up all night and watch the events in real time. Sniff.)

And, while we're on the Olympics, the new Queen meme is awesome--and versatile!

Finally, I leave you with this.

This isn't a hit of the summer, or even an oldie, but it's what I listen to before I go to bed, and in my quiet, alone moments, and sometimes in the car when I'm by myself. It's inspiring; it's moving. It hits that spot in my inner self I'm still struggling to understand. It's a good reminder of where we're going in life, why we weren't ultimately meant to be alone. Most of us, anyway.

And finally finally, not to bang my own drum too much or anything, but guess who's done her application for grad school? THIS GIRL.

I am, we are

 Let's preface this: I am a Penn State student.

Photo courtesy of amesphotos.com

I resolved I wasn't going to say anything in public for two reasons. One, I don't believe in broadcasting anything that's an angry rant and not well thought out. Two, because it seems like everything there is to say has been said, by people much smarter, people much dumber, and people more highly publicized than I. I didn't see the point. However, people have been asking my opinion lately, and Facebook posts are agitating me. My uncle called yesterday to ask how my dad was doing, and he asked specifically to talk to me because he wanted to know where I stood on the whole situation. I reason that I'm more middle-of-the-road than a lot of people, and I do deserve to have my opinion heard. So let's do this, and I'll try to keep it brief.

I don't give a damn about a statue. I don't give a damn about one man's supposed saintliness or "legacy." What I DO care about are the victims, and what I also care about is the well-being of my university.

We've all said about a million times how much we feel for the victims, and I completely agree, but I think we're not quite grasping that enough because it's so remote from the majority of the population. Yes, we all say we're sorry and this should never happen again, because we don't know quite how to respond. Pedophilia is something you don't hear about in day-to-day life. Its horrors are unspeakable. Even now I'm using cliches because I don't know much about it. You know about rape? Multiply that by about a thousand. I'm told that's the extent of pedophila trauma for the victims.

I am not belittling that in any way. On the contrary, I have an enormous amount of respect for the brave men who came forward at Jerry Sandusky's trial and told their stories so that he could be brought to justice. But unless you're a victim yourself, or you've talked to a victim, or you were in that courtroom, you're not going to fully understand the extent of what happened to them. We're not all trained psychologists. I hope that, someday in the future, one or two of them will be brave enough to write a book, or speak out, so that we can begin to understand the horror. But for now, although we all know it's terrible, we can't grasp how terrible, so we donate money and say conciliatory things and look for someone to lay our ignorance and blame on.

And that leaves Penn State, Graham Spanier, Tim Curley, Gary Schultz, and Joe Paterno.

I will never say that any of these men were unjustly accused in the Freeh report. I will never say that Joe Paterno is going to hell and that his bad deeds cancel out all of his good ones. I can see both sides. And while I think football overshadows a lot at my school, let me also point out that I received a grant through the Paterno Fellows Program that made studying abroad in Berlin last year a lot, lot easier. I think Freeh and President Rodney Erickson have been remarkably fair in their judgments, although there is always going to be some bias, and I think the media saw what they wanted to see in the Freeh report. Freeh remarked that Joe Paterno made a terrible decision. He also said the man had done a lot of good. How do you reconcile both those statements?

I didn't decide to go to Penn State because of Joe Paterno. I didn't decide to go to Penn State because of the football program.

I went to Penn State because it was in-state tuition for a really excellent education. That was my entire reasoning.

Three years later, Penn State is still a center for academic excellence, and it's my home. And when people threaten either one of those things, it makes me angry.

Both sides are frustrating me right now. The Paterno family needs to learn to be silent and acknowledge guilt. The students need to learn that they're not making things look good for anyone by protesting the removal of a bronze idol. (And, for the record, I thought Erickson's remarks about removing the statue but keeping the name on the library were very fair and justified. But no one makes a big deal out of a library.)

The newspaper columnists and TV commentators and ordinary US citizens need to learn that this was a leadership scandal, an abuse of power, in the face of one terrible man. The students and professors and staff and community members knew nothing. And we make up most of the university. Consequently, Penn State should not "burn to the ground," as one person suggested, nor are all Penn State students going to hell for being pedophile enablers, as others have said, nor are we all despicable citizens. I normally know when I've done something wrong, and I do not feel despicable.

And as a student who can recognize that Joe Paterno did something wrong, who believes that we as a university need to change, I think we've stepped up to the plate. We fired Paterno and Spanier. Schultz and Curley are going to trial. We ourselves commissioned the Freeh report. We donated to RAINN and took various measures to ensure this would never happen again. We've trained our employees all about the Cleary Act. We effectively cleaned out the football program. What does all this say? We're committed to change. Football is not the only thing that's important to us. If it was, we would have denied everything and kept Paterno.

Today the NCAA decided the fate of the Penn State football program. While we're still hurt beyond words, and I don't agree with everything the organization has decided upon, I find the sanctions fair overall. And to those who say we still should have gotten the death penalty, consider this: It wouldn't be fair to the players, old and new, those looking forward to their senior year and those who have just been recruited. It wouldn't be fair to the Blue Band members or the cheerleaders or the gymnasts or the Blue Sapphire. It wouldn't be fair to the students who need something to rally behind after this whole mess. It would't be fair to the Board of Trustees, who just hired the new coaching staff, and to said coaching staff themselves. It wouldn't be fair to the merchants of downtown State College, who rely on football weekends for needed revenue. They're actually the people I'm most concerned about. And it wouldn't be fair to everyone at the university who has helped to make the changes listed above. To the people who decry us for only caring about football I say, You made us this way, and now you denounce it.  Shame on you. We were built up as a football school. Who says we can't be a good football school once again?

We've been punished enough this year, which is probably why some of the students have overreacted. You, former hippies and Kent State sympathizers and rebels, you remember what it's like to be students. We've been punished by the media and the NCAA and most of all by our own leaders, who let us down. But America loves to punish people. We're obsessed as a culture with punishment. "No pain, no gain," is the American way. And that's why people won't stop until Penn State is, not on its knees, as we are now, but ground into dust.

But then, it wasn't the death penalty. And other schools in the past have been punished in the same way, albeit not to this extreme. We should expect nothing else. 

Yes, it hurts. It hurts terribly. It feels like being told that your grandfather, a man you trusted your entire life, was actually a serial killer. And yes, we trusted these men. My friends went caroling at Joepa's house. Graham Spanier did magic tricks backstage at one of my concerts. We all have these stories. That's why I can understand the overwhelming urge to defend them, especially Joe Paterno. Because unlike the horror of pedophila, this is a feeling most of us can grasp, and we're clinging on to it.

No wonder we're all obsessed with JoePa, for better or for worse, the media and the citizens and the students. But he's dead. He can't be punished anymore, and whether you think that's a good thing or a bad thing, it's a fact. You're only punishing his family, the students, the professors, the community--those of us who did nothing wrong. But again, remember. America is obsessed with punishment.

Please, do me and the rest of the university a favor, and let's break that cycle. I'm not saying "forgive us all our trespasses," even. But even sitting down for a minute and reflecting that the students had nothing to do with this? Refusing to join in the Penn State bashing at work? That's a step in the right direction.

For the rest of my fellow students: go take a walk. Do some yoga. Run a 5K, and donate the money to RAINN. Go sit at your high school football stadium and scream at the top of your lungs. Get it out. It's over and done. Our leaders failed us. The anguish is out. The judgment has been passed down. It's time to let the healing begin, if people will let us. Stop defending Joe Paterno and get on with your lives. For a really excellent essay about moving forward, I recommend reading this. Ian is currently the drum major of the Penn State Blue Band, and he and I were in concert choir together in previous years, but I never knew he was also such a talented writer. I find his remarks incredibly fair, considering his position.

For the past weeks, I've felt like I've been between two people screaming at the top of their lungs, and all I want to do is put my hands over my ears and scream Stop it, stop it, stop it! Let's hope that, with these sanctions, we can end this. I will return to "dear old State" this fall to continue my education--the reason I was there in the first place. We must remember that Penn State and Joe Paterno are separate entities, as hard as that is. Joe Paterno was a man, with all of a man's strengths and flaws. We are not Joe Paterno. We are Penn State. And I am proud to be a Penn Stater.

And let's remember, this didn't necessarily have to be a Penn State problem. This could have happened at Ohio State, or Alabama, or Oregon, or any other football school in the country. The exact same thing. And then where would the blame be?

And, even before we are, remember: I am, I am, I am.

Something more

This will probably sound crazy, but do you ever have those moments of nostalgia that transcend normal memories? You're not just thinking back on a trip you took, or something that someone said that made you laugh, but you can almost be there, you can smell or taste or feel it. It's thick and almost tangible. It's the nostalgia for something more than the memory.

My friend Brandon and I were talking about this today. He's currently studying abroad for five weeks in Europe, and talking to him made me realize how much I want to be there, especially at this time of year. I've been feeling this way for the past several days. I think my dad triggered it. I mentioned something about Berlin, and he asked me if I missed it, and I really thought about the question. Oh yes, I said, I miss it. And I haven't been able to stop living in this kind of nostalgia since.

I told Brandon about this strange sensation, and he said he knew what I was talking about. I couldn't tell if he really did, or if he was just being kind to his poor, crazy friend.

I miss my entire trip, but I've been having this--sensation, I suppose you could call it--for the time when I first arrived, for the last golden days of summer and my first days and weeks in Berlin. I was still getting used to everything, but it felt so right. Living in my little shoebox of an apartment in Berlin (my friend Jordan called it, semi-affectionately, his cellblock). The indescribable, indelible smell of the apartment building, something slightly sour, something like cooking, but not entirely.

We were told that we were lucky, that it almost never stays that warm and sunny through the north German fall. I knew it on my afternoon runs through my neighborhood.

Negotiating awkward trips to the grocery store, where my biggest challenge was figuring out that mysterious phrase the cashiers said to me before they rung me up. (I figured it out, months later, when my German was better: they were asking me if I had a store card.) Much easier, and friendlier, was the farmer's market, where the Turkish vendors would often throw in some free cheese dip or hummus when I bought couscous and olives and other good things that were easy to throw together after class.

 The sun set just early enough and the breeze held just the right amount of crisp to make it feel like school weather, so I had no trouble packing off to class, trading insults with Clint on one side and letting Christina rest her head on my shoulder on the other. Sometimes I didn't even mind the 9 AM start time for German. We mixed just the right amount of work and play, almost effortlessly.

Then there were the nights, my first tastes of nightclubs and legal alcohol, finding new sections of the city, pubs and bars. Staying out until 5 AM with people that were my almost-instant friends because we were all young, it was the last days of summer, and we were all new to this city and blundered our German until the exasperated locals spoke English to us. We had a favorite bar--Hannibal--and I think of that now just as much like home as my apartment. It was right off the S-Bahn stop, and though I almost got run over crossing the street there once, it was worth it for their epic liquored milkshakes and gin fizzes.

And the full slices of watermelon they'd perch on your drink. And Jordan's epic hand bandage.

The smell of my apartment building, and the cool of my pillow when I finally did lay my head down, my school building and my morning walk to the bus stop, the taste of verboten Cuban rum with sweet Coke and the sweeter attentions and tensions of boys. That lightness in my life, like I was riding up, up, in an expanding soap bubble, logical and wonderful. I can almost be there, and then it's gone. And it's not a fix I can cure with pictures. That cheapens it somehow.

 I'm longing for it.

Marmalade, we're making out

Just a few thoughts for the day:

• I'm getting more and more into The Colbert Repor(t) and Stephen Colbert's brand of humor in general.

 

• This was my dinner last night: Greek salad pizza topped with feta, arugula, fresh tomatoes, and kamalata olives. We've been doing a lot of pizza-on-the-grill lately. Does this get boring? Not in the least. We even added quinoa salad and sangria tonight. I don't even need dessert. (Do I still eat dessert? Do you need to ask?)

• I've been super-productive the last few days: hitting the gym, working on my thesis, being pleasant, crossing things off my to-do list. For some reason, I don't feel like I've accomplished an awful lot. I should be satisfied, because as Fitz advised, I'm living a life I'm proud of. I'm very proud, for example, of what this picture represents. Not a lot of people will know what that is. That's okay.

• Take me to your best friend's house, marmalade we're making out ohhhhhh yeahhhhhhhhh. I want to hear this a million more times. Apparently the lyrics are actually "Normally we're making out," but I like the oft-misquoted "marmalade" so much better. It's so summer.

Fourth

Happy belated Fourth of July to all! It's a great day when the Brits and the Americans can celebrate together, as we did at camp.

Somehow, the Brit is even more decked out than the American.

 It was a great day of Chipwiches, blasting "Party in the USA" over the loudspeakers from the office (and then flipping out in fear when I turned on Reel Big Fish's cover of "Brown-Eyed Girl," only to discover that they yell what sounds suspiciously like "Fuck! Fuck!" right in the middle), and Spicing Up our Lives (as the younger campers wondered what unknown girl band was blasting at the carnival).

 It was a day of true Americana--something I've been slightly obsessed with lately--from that carnival to the Eggs New Orleans I enjoyed at a little local cafe that seasoned counselors raved about. Now I understand why.

 Look how decked out I am! That would never happen on a normal July 4th.

Independence Day's never been an especially exciting holiday for me--I always considered it just another summer day, perhaps a little more beefed up than the average day, with slightly-overrated fireworks. This year, for some reason, it was something really special. Maybe it's being back in the country for the first time in almost a year and remembering that, no matter how much I disagree sometimes with our politics and policies and the stubborn people, this will always be my home, somewhere I can come back to. And that was something I was truly grateful for--that I was born and raised here--as I ate my Chipwich and watched the camp fireworks with my new friends.

Zip codes

Current location? Lake Sebago, Maine. I live my life by zip codes.

(The zip code here is 04055, in case you were wondering.)

I'm working for eight weeks as a glorified receptionist at an all-girls' summer camp right on the lake. It's...interesting, to say the least. It drives me crazy that most of my time, on and off, is spent on the same ten or fifteen acres of land, that I have sand in my bed and all over my cabin, that the parents who call have the most insane demands.

Occasionally, though, it doesn't drive me crazy...like when I take my nightly walk and see this. Or when I'm kayaking on or swimming in the lake in the midmorning hours. Or when I drive into Portland and discover its kitschy cuteness. Or when I'm driving through the countryside, past all the self-pick blueberry fields and pine trees, with my new British friend Kelsi. She insists on driving with the windows down, because "the weather's so much nicer here than in England." At first I'm annoyed--it's harder to hear her and my music--but then I'm glad she did it.

Because with my curly hair blowing in my face and around the car, and Kelsi introducing me to new music and songs I always liked, but never knew the names of, and the sun lingering forever because it's the heart of summer, it feels just like Americana should. Especially when I say, "AMUR'CA!" and she laughs.

I don't know if moments like these make living here "worth it"--I work six days a week for one day off, and I live for my days off--but they certainly do make good moments. I'm finally learning in person what my parents spent years telling me--do the work you love, and love the work you do, because that's what you'll be doing for the rest of your life. I love my days off, but I can't live for them alone.

I've just got to keep moving.

Off to take a shower, then, since today is one of said cherished days off, an adventure awaits...or maybe just laundry. (I have to drive half an hour away, to the nearest laundromat, since the dryers here really don't do anything except waste your money for musty, wet clothes.)

P.S. I had a dream last night that everyone forgot my birthday, which is exactly a month away today. Please tell me this won't be the case?