College feels like a million miles away. It feels so far that it nearly feels like it didn't happen, or barely happened. I don't remember it. I didn't drink heavily. I didn't party hard. Sometimes I'm shocked by the amount of "doing" that I just didn't. I went to class; I auditioned for one play (and got so embarrassed by forgetting my monologue that I dropped out of the theater school entirely); I wrote for the Daily Iowan; I hosted a weekly radio show for three years on KRUI 89.7. I called it "The Early Morning Airstrike."
Higher education — it's supposed to be this time of self-discovery, learning, adventure, finding out what you're good at, trying things — but I don't really think I did those overarching things. I was busy doing this and then that, creating friendships that when looked at closely these days aren't all that close (at least not anymore). Both of my college roommates ended up in Los Angeles post graduation, yet we seldom get together. It's no ones specific fault. We just lead different lives, have different interests, different priorities. We're different, after all. When I really think about it, it's unbelievable that we've made it this far because we are so different.
This time last year, I was just ending a sub-chapter back in a University setting. I was behind a desk, working in an office, watching students linger outside classrooms, skateboard past signs that say "No Skateboarding," and wear business suits as an assignment — And now a full year after that, I'm left wondering, where did it all go? Even if you're in the same decade, it's unbelievable how different a 20-year-old is from a 29-year-old. The incremental change each day of those 365 days from 29 to 30 hits you the day before your birthday. It isn't incremental at all. And now that keep hitting these painful numbers, it feels like I've somehow moved further away from something rather than toward something else. I don't think I'll ever feel my age again. Maybe when I'm 80. By then my hips, knees and eyes won't let me skip past the truth like they do now.
I'm not old. I'm not. I'm really not. But, I feel old. I feel left behind. I have this overwhelming sense that my life is passing me by. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Like I didn't just waste a couple decades. It seems that for most people their job is where they find their satisfaction, their reason to be, "raison d'être." And as a performer, it's tough to know that my career is somewhat in the hands of others. Yes, I can create my work — I can write for myself — I can join teams and perform shows, and so on, and on, and on; I can do all of these things, and that is amazing. But what does it matter if no one sees it. If no one thinks it's good enough to pay for. Where is my worth? I have so much control, but what is control anyway?
Google defines it as "the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events." But this is only a half definition to me. Control can direct, sure, but when you're out of control there is also a direction, and it's not always down. The relationship between control and success is a lie.
I have so much less "control" than I think. I can do what I can to direct the course of my life, but life will do what it wants, and other people in their lives are doing the same, and my life will intersect with theirs, and there will be "right time and right place," and then the less popular, but more common, "wrong time and wrong place," followed by the confusing, "wrong time and right place," and then of course, the ever frustrating "right time and wrong place." If we're looking at life as a Punnett Square based on life situations: Time and Place as the main variables — "right time and right place" accounts for just 25 percent of what life hands you, the rest, darlings, is unfortunately 75 percent the mismatching of everything else. We cannot control time. So inevitably control is for nothing.
If I want to make any money at my creative craft, that alleged control I love to have so much, goes to the birds. Others write my paycheck. It's incredibly tough.
Where does that leave me?
It leaves time as the constant variable that won't allow itself to be controlled.
Showing posts with label Daily Iowan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Daily Iowan. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 05, 2016
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
dear you, my friend, my confidante, my pen-pals.
I have a lot of pen-pals. You know? Pen pals — those people who your third grade teacher somehow arranged for you to write to so that you, the youth of America, could get to know the intricate lives of other kids in other towns. So you could spread your mind. Expand your universe. Realize you're not so alone. Those. Those are the pen-pals, I speak of.
As I've continued on this seemingly endless journey, I've managed to keep a running list of friends who have become better friends as a result of letter writing, far beyond the bounds of that elementary tradition. As I continue to move and change and grow and live, people drop off and pick up — and it's fun. Sometimes I forget who I wrote to and what I wrote them until I get a letter back...like a little treat. I keep them all, the letters/cards/notes. I put them in a shoebox and every now and again, I pull them out, remember the moments that went into them. I reread over and over. They're reflections of the lives we were leading in that moment, however far apart, however close together.
I think there's something truly exciting about writing someone a letter. The reality that there is only one copy, that once the envelope is open and its contents delivered, that sensational anticipation withers until the next go-around. The struggle of a hand cramping, a tear smudging, the USPS seemingly dousing the whole thing in a bunch of dirt...
Sometimes I write long notes, sometimes short, but I sort of like not knowing exactly what I wrote once it's stamped, sealed and sent.
It's so easy to write and rewrite and go back and clarify things on a computer, that sometimes I wonder if it even matters — my life edited is not my life. There's something to be said about the intention that goes into writing a letter, hoping to remember exactly what I told someone, remembering the questions I asked, the thoughts swirling in my mind at the time.
With computers and email and texting and comment threads and message boards and all these different ways to "drop a quick note," I revel in the one-on-one correspondence of it all. I revel in having only their responses to go off of, like a Best Friend necklace, we each have our sides, even if we're not best friends.
A few weeks ago a friend sent me a letter that detailed his life.
We've known one another for years now, peripherally, but letter writing has since made it more apparent how similar our overall experiences and thoughts are, while also showing how incredibly different our day-to-day lives actually are. We started at the same University at the same time, wrote for the same college paper, and though we didn't know each other well — well enough to say, "Hi," to befriend one another on social media, to feel comfortable "liking" a photo on Facebook, or thoughtfully responding to a status update — we've struck up a friendship born from our mutual desire to share.
Putting our minds, our worries, our thoughts of the moment, to page in specific correspondence with one another — I don't know — it feels more real than some of my daily relationships.
At the moment I have three regular pen-pals, and a harbor stocked with friends I write regular emails to, and even more who read this blog (the ultimate one-way pen-pal situation, so I guess just pen?).
Sometimes depending on the pen-pal, it feels as if I'm reading the book of their life, and they're reading mine, like a memoir unedited, unabridged and unending. It's a delight, and I hope it doesn't ever stop. As friends come and go from my life, as in-person relationships fade with distance and time, I'm glad that however arcane it might be to grab a ballpoint and a college-ruled piece of paper, I have people who's addresses I can send to knowing they're excited to hear from me.
Write more, everyone.
As I've continued on this seemingly endless journey, I've managed to keep a running list of friends who have become better friends as a result of letter writing, far beyond the bounds of that elementary tradition. As I continue to move and change and grow and live, people drop off and pick up — and it's fun. Sometimes I forget who I wrote to and what I wrote them until I get a letter back...like a little treat. I keep them all, the letters/cards/notes. I put them in a shoebox and every now and again, I pull them out, remember the moments that went into them. I reread over and over. They're reflections of the lives we were leading in that moment, however far apart, however close together.
I think there's something truly exciting about writing someone a letter. The reality that there is only one copy, that once the envelope is open and its contents delivered, that sensational anticipation withers until the next go-around. The struggle of a hand cramping, a tear smudging, the USPS seemingly dousing the whole thing in a bunch of dirt...
Sometimes I write long notes, sometimes short, but I sort of like not knowing exactly what I wrote once it's stamped, sealed and sent.
It's so easy to write and rewrite and go back and clarify things on a computer, that sometimes I wonder if it even matters — my life edited is not my life. There's something to be said about the intention that goes into writing a letter, hoping to remember exactly what I told someone, remembering the questions I asked, the thoughts swirling in my mind at the time.
With computers and email and texting and comment threads and message boards and all these different ways to "drop a quick note," I revel in the one-on-one correspondence of it all. I revel in having only their responses to go off of, like a Best Friend necklace, we each have our sides, even if we're not best friends.
We've known one another for years now, peripherally, but letter writing has since made it more apparent how similar our overall experiences and thoughts are, while also showing how incredibly different our day-to-day lives actually are. We started at the same University at the same time, wrote for the same college paper, and though we didn't know each other well — well enough to say, "Hi," to befriend one another on social media, to feel comfortable "liking" a photo on Facebook, or thoughtfully responding to a status update — we've struck up a friendship born from our mutual desire to share.
Putting our minds, our worries, our thoughts of the moment, to page in specific correspondence with one another — I don't know — it feels more real than some of my daily relationships.
At the moment I have three regular pen-pals, and a harbor stocked with friends I write regular emails to, and even more who read this blog (the ultimate one-way pen-pal situation, so I guess just pen?).
Sometimes depending on the pen-pal, it feels as if I'm reading the book of their life, and they're reading mine, like a memoir unedited, unabridged and unending. It's a delight, and I hope it doesn't ever stop. As friends come and go from my life, as in-person relationships fade with distance and time, I'm glad that however arcane it might be to grab a ballpoint and a college-ruled piece of paper, I have people who's addresses I can send to knowing they're excited to hear from me.
Write more, everyone.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
hate mail / hate male: i did it for the jokes.
At the start of my collegiate writing career I experienced one of my then most exciting comedy breakthroughs — an opportunity to write The Ledge, a weekly joke column for my school newspaper, The Daily Iowan. Being offered this chance to deliver to the masses a social comedic commentary that would truly influence lives (!!!) was like being offered Saturday Night Live directly by Lorne Michaels himself. It was something I never imagined I would get to do, but there I was, doing it —as a sophomore, no less. (I would like the record to reflect that I am now able to see that my sights were not set high enough.)
The previous week Michael Moller, a DI colleague of mine, wrote a Ledge titled, "Sexual Things Women Don't know About Men." It was funny, if generic, and having grown up with four brothers, I got the jokes. What I didn't get at the time was that for many college boys, that bulleted list wasn't a joke like I saw it — a list highlighting the "funny" things that used to be true, things that are so ridiculous that they're clearly a joke. No, Michael's list for many guys (at least at the University of Iowa, and continues to prove elsewhere) was the Truth List, funny because it belittled their female peers.
On one end of the scale, the column read, "Every guy has measured his penis..." (laugh-worthy, sure) and on the other side of the jaw-dropping chuckle fest, "If they have an STD, they will not tell you" (a pretty blatant violation of sexual trust).
But, hey, it was a joke. I love jokes. Still do. And, I am absolutely positive all those gals with HPV have been laughing nonstop about this one.
So, I decided to write a "Come-back" column. At the time I thought I was on the cusp of some major Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus precipice, ready to discover something truly original in what I now know is a never ending conversation about gender roles that I hate. I was young. I didn't know!
I wrote my list, my hilarious, insightful, indignant and violently hyperbolic list: "Things Men Should Know About Women." I proclaimed things like, "We all are smarter than you, wherever you went to
school and whatever your GPA is." God, I was good. I played with words like Seshat would, spilling my outspoken female psyche onto giggling co-eds. "We’ve got feminine wiles. Did anyone ever hear of male wiles? No." And, they didn't, and don't.
I was a brilliant mastermind falling right into a clichéd collegiate squabble. But, hey it was a joke! I did it for the laughs! I only wish I knew that it wasn't some dumb playground back-and-forth. I wish I knew that this conversation, these sorts of "men do this, and women do that," ping-pong competitions, jokes or not, are so, so dumb.
Shortly after my list was published I received a melee of hate mail, or rather hate from males. I was harassed on Facebook. I was harassed over email. No one ever harassed me to my face because, God, there's something so...what's the word, oh, EMPOWERING, about attacking people through the thick vat that is the Internet.
I got messages from an idiot named Eric (can't remember his last name) telling me in no uncertain terms that due to my lack of sexual prowess he could "guarantee" that "no guy had ever bought [me] a drink in a bar." Oh, man. Stinger. Like the class-act I've always been I wrote a bunch of trite sassy responses, none of which I actually sent him, instead opting for the high road. I informed him that "I'm a person," and he had offended me. Obviously, it only made sense to thank him for reading my column. The honor to have him as reader. I was so, so blessed with his presence.
But, the most malicious response came in the form of a terribly crafted email written by a University of Iowa football player, Jovon. I only shared his email with a few people, including my boyfriend at the time, Brian, and my two roommates, both named Elizabeth.
Then that was it. I don't think I ever responded to Jovon. He hurt me more than I even knew then. I don't remember the whole email, and I've long since deleted it, hoping that with a quick hit of the button I'd never think about him calling me a "beat ass chicken head," among other things again. But, I do. It's been eight years of randomly remembering Jovon's hateful words. I remember thinking that receiving hate mail was part of what being a journalist was. I remember Brian telling me that Jovon's email was garbage. I remember him telling me he loved me, and he would definitely buy me a drink in a bar. I remember laughing about it with my friends, and I remember crying about it alone.
The Elizabeth's encouraged me to forward the emails to my editor, as did Brian. But, I thought having a brave face, ignoring this incessant gender warring faction, was the way to really prove I was an equal sex. I don't know if I was right to ignore the advice of my peers, opting to "not be a tattle-tale." But I will say now, I wish I spoke up, rather than becoming silenced. What I didn't realize then was that I wasn't just being attacked for being a jokester of a female, I was being attacked for daring to joke about gender inequality, daring to just kid around about women being superior to men, about not wanting to get into the kitchen to make a sandwich, etc. Joking. I don't believe women are superior, nor do I believe men are, but plenty of men do think they are — and even kidding that it could be the other way around was too much for some male counterparts, then and clearly still, now.
Since then I have grown as a comic, as an improviser, as an actor, as a writer. That experience long ago sticks with me, and there have been others since then, too, perhaps not as sticky in my mind, but they are there.
I've made jokes about males. I've made jokes about females. I've delivered stand-up about how people don't say what they want. I've delivered stand-up about my fears that saying what I want will make me look like a weak little girl. I try to tackle the things that matter to me, whether it's through comedy, writing or just regular conversation with friends. And still, I find myself self-censoring because sometimes I am still scared of rocking the boat, of offending, of saying something or doing something that will make someone not just write me mean things or prank call me spewing hate, but really hurt me.
There is nothing worse for a person's soul then to feel like they have to hide who they are because of the fear of what someone could do to them.
I don't want this for my fellow peers, male or female.
The previous week Michael Moller, a DI colleague of mine, wrote a Ledge titled, "Sexual Things Women Don't know About Men." It was funny, if generic, and having grown up with four brothers, I got the jokes. What I didn't get at the time was that for many college boys, that bulleted list wasn't a joke like I saw it — a list highlighting the "funny" things that used to be true, things that are so ridiculous that they're clearly a joke. No, Michael's list for many guys (at least at the University of Iowa, and continues to prove elsewhere) was the Truth List, funny because it belittled their female peers.
On one end of the scale, the column read, "Every guy has measured his penis..." (laugh-worthy, sure) and on the other side of the jaw-dropping chuckle fest, "If they have an STD, they will not tell you" (a pretty blatant violation of sexual trust).
But, hey, it was a joke. I love jokes. Still do. And, I am absolutely positive all those gals with HPV have been laughing nonstop about this one.
So, I decided to write a "Come-back" column. At the time I thought I was on the cusp of some major Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus precipice, ready to discover something truly original in what I now know is a never ending conversation about gender roles that I hate. I was young. I didn't know!
I wrote my list, my hilarious, insightful, indignant and violently hyperbolic list: "Things Men Should Know About Women." I proclaimed things like, "We all are smarter than you, wherever you went to
school and whatever your GPA is." God, I was good. I played with words like Seshat would, spilling my outspoken female psyche onto giggling co-eds. "We’ve got feminine wiles. Did anyone ever hear of male wiles? No." And, they didn't, and don't.
I was a brilliant mastermind falling right into a clichéd collegiate squabble. But, hey it was a joke! I did it for the laughs! I only wish I knew that it wasn't some dumb playground back-and-forth. I wish I knew that this conversation, these sorts of "men do this, and women do that," ping-pong competitions, jokes or not, are so, so dumb.
Shortly after my list was published I received a melee of hate mail, or rather hate from males. I was harassed on Facebook. I was harassed over email. No one ever harassed me to my face because, God, there's something so...what's the word, oh, EMPOWERING, about attacking people through the thick vat that is the Internet.
I got messages from an idiot named Eric (can't remember his last name) telling me in no uncertain terms that due to my lack of sexual prowess he could "guarantee" that "no guy had ever bought [me] a drink in a bar." Oh, man. Stinger. Like the class-act I've always been I wrote a bunch of trite sassy responses, none of which I actually sent him, instead opting for the high road. I informed him that "I'm a person," and he had offended me. Obviously, it only made sense to thank him for reading my column. The honor to have him as reader. I was so, so blessed with his presence.
But, the most malicious response came in the form of a terribly crafted email written by a University of Iowa football player, Jovon. I only shared his email with a few people, including my boyfriend at the time, Brian, and my two roommates, both named Elizabeth.
Then that was it. I don't think I ever responded to Jovon. He hurt me more than I even knew then. I don't remember the whole email, and I've long since deleted it, hoping that with a quick hit of the button I'd never think about him calling me a "beat ass chicken head," among other things again. But, I do. It's been eight years of randomly remembering Jovon's hateful words. I remember thinking that receiving hate mail was part of what being a journalist was. I remember Brian telling me that Jovon's email was garbage. I remember him telling me he loved me, and he would definitely buy me a drink in a bar. I remember laughing about it with my friends, and I remember crying about it alone.
The Elizabeth's encouraged me to forward the emails to my editor, as did Brian. But, I thought having a brave face, ignoring this incessant gender warring faction, was the way to really prove I was an equal sex. I don't know if I was right to ignore the advice of my peers, opting to "not be a tattle-tale." But I will say now, I wish I spoke up, rather than becoming silenced. What I didn't realize then was that I wasn't just being attacked for being a jokester of a female, I was being attacked for daring to joke about gender inequality, daring to just kid around about women being superior to men, about not wanting to get into the kitchen to make a sandwich, etc. Joking. I don't believe women are superior, nor do I believe men are, but plenty of men do think they are — and even kidding that it could be the other way around was too much for some male counterparts, then and clearly still, now.
Since then I have grown as a comic, as an improviser, as an actor, as a writer. That experience long ago sticks with me, and there have been others since then, too, perhaps not as sticky in my mind, but they are there.
I've made jokes about males. I've made jokes about females. I've delivered stand-up about how people don't say what they want. I've delivered stand-up about my fears that saying what I want will make me look like a weak little girl. I try to tackle the things that matter to me, whether it's through comedy, writing or just regular conversation with friends. And still, I find myself self-censoring because sometimes I am still scared of rocking the boat, of offending, of saying something or doing something that will make someone not just write me mean things or prank call me spewing hate, but really hurt me.
There is nothing worse for a person's soul then to feel like they have to hide who they are because of the fear of what someone could do to them.
I don't want this for my fellow peers, male or female.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
the graceful steps of life
i wrote this story. it was published in the daily iowan's may 15th issue. it was my last daily iowan story before i graduated. enjoy. click here for more.
Whitney Wright took some great photos that you can see here.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Let that Be Enough, Switchfoot
Sometimes I really dislike the fact that I need God — you know, sometimes I feel like I'm here for no reason. And it bugs me that I can't do it alone. Anyway, I went to the Switchfoot concert last night with some friends for free (because I am a hotshot newspaper woman), and they played this song and another that I really enjoyed. I think I like this song so much because when I feel like I don't want to need God and when I feel like I can do it by myself it's when I also feel like I don't know if God is there. It's when I feel defeated. I bolded the particular lines that stuck out. The other song that I enjoyed was "On Fire."
I wish I had what I need
To be on my own
'Cause I feel so defeated
And I'm feeling alone
And it all seems so helpless
And I have no plans
I'm a plane in the sunset
With nowhere to land
And all I see
It could never make me happy And all my sand castles
Spend their time collapsing
Let me know that You hear me
Let me know Your touch
Let me know that You love me
Let that be enough
It's my birthday tomorrow
No one here could know
I was born this Thursday
22 years ago
And I feel stuck
Watching history repeating
Yeah, who am I?
Just a kid who knows he's needy
Let me know that You hear me
Let me know Your touch
Let me know that You love me
And let that be enough
Here's the link to the Daily Iowan story I wrote. HERE
I wish I had what I need
To be on my own
'Cause I feel so defeated
And I'm feeling alone
And it all seems so helpless
And I have no plans
I'm a plane in the sunset
With nowhere to land
And all I see
It could never make me happy And all my sand castles
Spend their time collapsing
Let me know that You hear me
Let me know Your touch
Let me know that You love me
Let that be enough
It's my birthday tomorrow
No one here could know
I was born this Thursday
22 years ago
And I feel stuck
Watching history repeating
Yeah, who am I?
Just a kid who knows he's needy
Let me know that You hear me
Let me know Your touch
Let me know that You love me
And let that be enough
Here's the link to the Daily Iowan story I wrote. HERE
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
A Bitter Sweet Semester
So, the year's started. Classes are into their second week, and homework has already been a burden. While I'm graduating with degrees in Journalism with Honors and English, I still feel like I somehow missed out on some of my education.
Example, last night famed whistle blower Dr. Daniel Ellsberg came to Hancher Auditorium at the UI to speak about his role in the greatest act of defense of the 1st Amendment, and I missed it. I was busy learning about dead poet and puritan, Milton. Granted, the class only meets once weekly and it was the first one, but nonetheless, I feel I've missed out on something truly remarkable.
I must add, however, that I did get to meet Ellsberg in my Writing Across Cultures class, which was pretty sweet. It would have been wonderful to see him in front of a large audience though.
But in keeping with this talk of education and earnestness for knowledge, I should get started on my various reading and response papers due for tomorrow.
Although I only have class Monday through Wednesday, those days are full, but so are Thursday and Friday. The nice part of only having class three days per week, is that there is outside work that I can complete on my own schedule the other four days. I thought 19 hours was going to be impossible while I balanced my duties at The Daily Iowan, Content Magazine and KRUI 89.7, but I am looking forward to a really wonderful semester.
Along with all of that, since it's my last here at Iowa, I'm simply looking forward to spending time with my friends, not killing myself too much, and meeting new people and having new experiences every day.
Example, last night famed whistle blower Dr. Daniel Ellsberg came to Hancher Auditorium at the UI to speak about his role in the greatest act of defense of the 1st Amendment, and I missed it. I was busy learning about dead poet and puritan, Milton. Granted, the class only meets once weekly and it was the first one, but nonetheless, I feel I've missed out on something truly remarkable.
I must add, however, that I did get to meet Ellsberg in my Writing Across Cultures class, which was pretty sweet. It would have been wonderful to see him in front of a large audience though.
But in keeping with this talk of education and earnestness for knowledge, I should get started on my various reading and response papers due for tomorrow.
Although I only have class Monday through Wednesday, those days are full, but so are Thursday and Friday. The nice part of only having class three days per week, is that there is outside work that I can complete on my own schedule the other four days. I thought 19 hours was going to be impossible while I balanced my duties at The Daily Iowan, Content Magazine and KRUI 89.7, but I am looking forward to a really wonderful semester.
Along with all of that, since it's my last here at Iowa, I'm simply looking forward to spending time with my friends, not killing myself too much, and meeting new people and having new experiences every day.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Explanations
First thing's first. The photos in the previous post are of France. 1. Laura, Jenna, & Ben 2. View from a medieval chateau 3. Omaha Beach, Normandy 4. Apartments in Pau 5. St. Nicholas church, Pau
[Change in subject here]
After three weeks at home, I'm back in Iowa City. I'm back writing for The Daily Iowan. I'm back drinking coffee at The Java House. I'm back with the people I feel so comfortable with. But it's strange. Now that I'm here the one person I felt most comfortable with in Iowa City isn't here anymore. I know it may sound stupid and/or cliche, but that's how it is. Anyway, I got a new camera before I left for France (was stolen), then got another camera three months in, so I think I'm going to take pictures of Iowa City and the UI like I did while abroad. It seems sort of hilarious to take photos of the things that have become surprisingly familiar, but I want those shots anyway.
In other news, I begin my first DI stories for this coming week. One on the IC Yacht Club's 5th year anniversary and another on a bluegrass group headed for The Mill. It feels good to be back in the swing of things, but it feels different because things here are different, I'm different, and I miss that feeling of contentment.
[Change in subject here]
After three weeks at home, I'm back in Iowa City. I'm back writing for The Daily Iowan. I'm back drinking coffee at The Java House. I'm back with the people I feel so comfortable with. But it's strange. Now that I'm here the one person I felt most comfortable with in Iowa City isn't here anymore. I know it may sound stupid and/or cliche, but that's how it is. Anyway, I got a new camera before I left for France (was stolen), then got another camera three months in, so I think I'm going to take pictures of Iowa City and the UI like I did while abroad. It seems sort of hilarious to take photos of the things that have become surprisingly familiar, but I want those shots anyway.
In other news, I begin my first DI stories for this coming week. One on the IC Yacht Club's 5th year anniversary and another on a bluegrass group headed for The Mill. It feels good to be back in the swing of things, but it feels different because things here are different, I'm different, and I miss that feeling of contentment.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
David Bazan (of Pedro the Lion)
So, I recently was able to interview the past Pedro the Lion front man to preview a concert at The Picador in Iowa City tonight. He was a really interesting man, and I ended up not just previewing the concert, but profiling him in a couple of ways.
Here are links to the article I wrote (which landed the front page slot of our weekend edition), and along with it is the radio story I put together for KRUI 89.7 to complement the article. If you find yourself super interested in The Daily Iowan's arts and culture section head to 80 Hours Weekend in Edition or catch the full April 12th radio podcast here.
Let me know how it all turns out.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
80 Hours on Air- KRUI 89.7
Listen to these radio stories I did for The Daily Iowan radio broadcast and podcast:
A story on the University of Iowa's "Ten Minute Play Festival"
A story on controversial performing artist Tim Miller at the UI's Obscenity Symposium
For a list of all the radio pieces done this semester by The Daily Iowan arts staff
A story on the University of Iowa's "Ten Minute Play Festival"
A story on controversial performing artist Tim Miller at the UI's Obscenity Symposium
For a list of all the radio pieces done this semester by The Daily Iowan arts staff
Friday, December 08, 2006
Cut, Cut, Cut: Let's take it from the top
I'm writing an article about self-abuse, about self-mutilation, about self-injury: about cutting. I'm writing an article about it because it matters. If I wasn't a reporter for the newspaper right now I would be sitting downstairs watching Growing Pains. Not that there's anything wrong with the Seaver family, but this is some important stuff. The idea that someone would willingly and intentional inflict pain upon themselves almost seems hilarious to some people. It's such a far-fetched idea. But it's not. Self-harm effects more than half of the United States' adolescent population. Many of them only do it once or twice, and then find it ineffective, but there are a few that continue. It's not a suicide attempt. It's a way to feel alive, however much of an oxy-moron it may seem upon initial glance.
I'm so scared and excited to write the piece. I'm writing about writing. How sick am I? Anyway, after talking with six or seven different UI professionals and/or students I feel like I have a firm handle on the subject.
It's running as our weekend edition "80 Hours" front December 14. Honestly, I'm scared to put pen to page or finger to keyboard. I don't want to offend. I don't want to instigate. I want to bring to the forethought. I want to decrease stigma. I want people to understand, and not judge, but I want self-harmers to stop. Knowing that a person can feel so disconnected, so out-of-touch hurts me. Instead of condemning, as a society we need to reach out and touch someone. Even if it hurts--reach out and help them feel alive.
We can't desensitize our minds to those things that we initially want to run away from in fear of knowing that it can affect even the most unsuspecting bystander. Even. If. Hurts.
I'm so scared and excited to write the piece. I'm writing about writing. How sick am I? Anyway, after talking with six or seven different UI professionals and/or students I feel like I have a firm handle on the subject.
It's running as our weekend edition "80 Hours" front December 14. Honestly, I'm scared to put pen to page or finger to keyboard. I don't want to offend. I don't want to instigate. I want to bring to the forethought. I want to decrease stigma. I want people to understand, and not judge, but I want self-harmers to stop. Knowing that a person can feel so disconnected, so out-of-touch hurts me. Instead of condemning, as a society we need to reach out and touch someone. Even if it hurts--reach out and help them feel alive.
We can't desensitize our minds to those things that we initially want to run away from in fear of knowing that it can affect even the most unsuspecting bystander. Even. If. Hurts.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Where Everyone Knows Your Name
Going home has become such a strange concept to me. One of the people I interviewed this semester told me something intriguing. Upon retrospect its of the Garden State influence. He said, "It's weird. You find a home in whatever [place] you're in." When I was a freshman I could feel it kind of sting my parents every time I 'accidentally' called my university home. Now its just sort of understood that I have these two places, these two lives, where I do stuff and every now and again they intersect. I remember feeling bad though every time I would say "I'm going home" in reference to my dorm room. One day I even, however haphazardly vowed to never call school home. Of course that's now out the window, but still. Anyway, friends in the two locations has been a tricky matter. My friends from growing up will always be there no matter how badly we keep in contact. I sort of wonder if that will be the case for my college friends after this is all said and done. Because the whole time we are here at this university in this place we know that in four years we won't be here anymore. We have more of a future-driven mindset, perhaps that has to do with the constant anxiety over getting a job or internship. I'd like to think everyone I know now will be with me like those friends I had before, but sometimes I'm uncertain. It doesn't help that every day I feel like I see someone that I know, but not really, but sort of do-ish-ness. Its like you do the 1/2 wave/smile and if they return it you don't feel like an idiot still living in freshman year dorm life. I guess I'm thinking about this all because this year seems like a lot of ends are happening, but then again there have been many beginnings. Its times like these when Colleen Marshall is absolutely necessary but completely unable.
On a side note (sort of), here's a list of 10 "Must-Go-To"s I've compiled:
1. France
2. Ireland
3. Greece
4. Switzerland
5. The Netherlands
6. Spain
7. Great Britain
8. Scotland
9. India
10. South Africa
Already Been's:
1. Italy
2. Mexico
3. Costa Rica
4. Canada
5. And 28 out of 50 States
I've got a travel itch that must be scratched. I think it has something to do with this need in me to see the world before I can comment on it. Sort of important for a journalist-in-the-making.
On a side note (sort of), here's a list of 10 "Must-Go-To"s I've compiled:
1. France
2. Ireland
3. Greece
4. Switzerland
5. The Netherlands
6. Spain
7. Great Britain
8. Scotland
9. India
10. South Africa
Already Been's:
1. Italy
2. Mexico
3. Costa Rica
4. Canada
5. And 28 out of 50 States
I've got a travel itch that must be scratched. I think it has something to do with this need in me to see the world before I can comment on it. Sort of important for a journalist-in-the-making.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Daily Iowan among other things
So I've been writing for the newspaper for going on 4 months, and it's been good to me. I have a ton of clips, but are they great clips? Recently I was reviewed ie. constructively criticized by my editors. It's their job, clearly, and I have to fall in line, yes. It's just that, sometimes working for a paper really stresses me out. I love writing, at least I'm almost 100 % sure, and I love reading other peoples stuff, at least when I get the chance. Logically taking part in it practically daily should feel right--normal. Perhaps I'm just tired, perhaps I just need Thanksgiving to come faster than it is, perhaps I'm not cut out, and perhaps I am. Really, all I need is a few more days in the week. 24 Hours is enough for a day, but I think everyone would benefit from a few more days in the week.
I can't wait to schedule classes for next semester. Hopefully I got into Arts & Culture reporting and Global Media. Those are the two journalism classes that I would love nothing more than be present in. I don't understand people that ditch class. Tuition's expensive. If you don't want to go, then maybe take an online course. It's just rude to classmates to consistently skip out on lecture/discussion.
For my english degree I have barely scratched the surface of looking for interesting classes to take. Some of the classes offered seem so esoteric, I don;t think I can find one that'll fit my specific needs. Honestly, I just don't want to have to read that many books. Short stories work well with my writing load. Right now I'm taking an American Short Story class. I realized a few days ago when attempting short hand that A.S.S. is that. When I smirked I noticed how immature I really am, or at least how amused I can be at the triviality of humor in my day to day.
18 Hours is a lot of class to attend. I feel like when I take any less than 5 classes I'm cheating myself of the availability of a learning environment. At the same time I want to be able to give more time to everything I'm involved in. Today in Magazine Reporting and Writing our adjunct professor was evaluated. I felt bad. He's a good guy, a quality journalist, and new at teaching. My friend and I both think he just needs more time to assimilate to the classroom. I hope he gets a second chance. I got the feeling that they wanted to nix him. Although we've shared descrepencies I think there's a lot I could learn from him. I'd rather have gotten a crap grade on something and learned from it, then an A and not understood anything more than I already do.
Well, it's 12:09, I'm going to research English classes for Spring semester. I already researched info on the 2006 Iowa elections. I'm sick of being uninformed--and I'm ashamed that I work at a daily paper and rarely read the metro section.
I can't wait to schedule classes for next semester. Hopefully I got into Arts & Culture reporting and Global Media. Those are the two journalism classes that I would love nothing more than be present in. I don't understand people that ditch class. Tuition's expensive. If you don't want to go, then maybe take an online course. It's just rude to classmates to consistently skip out on lecture/discussion.
For my english degree I have barely scratched the surface of looking for interesting classes to take. Some of the classes offered seem so esoteric, I don;t think I can find one that'll fit my specific needs. Honestly, I just don't want to have to read that many books. Short stories work well with my writing load. Right now I'm taking an American Short Story class. I realized a few days ago when attempting short hand that A.S.S. is that. When I smirked I noticed how immature I really am, or at least how amused I can be at the triviality of humor in my day to day.
18 Hours is a lot of class to attend. I feel like when I take any less than 5 classes I'm cheating myself of the availability of a learning environment. At the same time I want to be able to give more time to everything I'm involved in. Today in Magazine Reporting and Writing our adjunct professor was evaluated. I felt bad. He's a good guy, a quality journalist, and new at teaching. My friend and I both think he just needs more time to assimilate to the classroom. I hope he gets a second chance. I got the feeling that they wanted to nix him. Although we've shared descrepencies I think there's a lot I could learn from him. I'd rather have gotten a crap grade on something and learned from it, then an A and not understood anything more than I already do.
Well, it's 12:09, I'm going to research English classes for Spring semester. I already researched info on the 2006 Iowa elections. I'm sick of being uninformed--and I'm ashamed that I work at a daily paper and rarely read the metro section.
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