Carry On...

Carry is a funny sort of verb. You can "carry" your possessions just the same as you can "carry" your hopes, your dreams. Hell, when it's a tough day, you end up carrying on. I bring up this idea because I have started to read O'Brian's The Things They Carried, a Vietnam War novel from the perspective of the American soldiers themselves. In the first chapter, each of the characters are immediately characterized by their material and non material possessions, really a sort of genius way of getting the reader familiar with the characters immediately. One normally finds difficulty in seeing the sensitive, the humorous, or the "soft" side of a soldier, but when you realize that Henry Dobbins, the huge machine gunner of the group, wears his girlfriend's pantyhose around his neck for comfort like a 5 year old carries their blanket, a less than intimidating man is revealed.

So what better way to recognize this ingenious characterization technique than to try it myself; after all, good artists create, great artists steal. A little Picasso philosophy for you right there.

Physical items, let's see; I don't like leaving my house without a full face of makeup. It might be an insecurity thing, or on the extreme opposite side, it might be a vanity thing. I can honestly say that I don't know. All I know is that I'm very shy about revealing what I really am like to others; what you call shyness I call security. Although this might sound sort of sad, I think it shows the people who I do spend time with without a trace of makeup on my face just how comfortable I am with them. It's like a visible invitation into my life and my world.

Okay next on the list- goals. Other than trying to graduate high school with flying colors.... or really just trying to get through it, my ultimate goal is art school. Before you laugh at the nearly tangible cliche of that statement, you should know that I'm actually quite aware of the fact that I won't have an easy time finding a job, much less a high paying job with an art degree of any kind. The fact of the matter is that I want to live my life doing what I know that I'm good at and I love, even if it requires falling under the category of the great middle lower class. It sounds better to me than working my ass off sitting at a desk for 40 hours a week at a job that I don't enjoy... ahhh, the great American vision of "success". Okay, sorry, I'll get off of the soapbox now. If art doesn't work out, I could always start a punk band, right?

Another thing I carry with me are the people who inspire me. People like my father, whose own father walked out on him and his sister and left him to deal with an alcoholic mother growing up. And yet, he tries his hardest to make a living environment which makes my family and I feel loved, safe. Or my good friend Cameron, who, even as a seven year old, stared into the face of death fearlessly as the cancer in his brain silently snatched him away from those who loved him. People who took what was given to them without fear, who turned it around and selflessly vowed to not let what happened to them  happen to anyone else. Those are the people who I respect, who inspire me to get up and seize the day, troubles and all.

We're almost finished, I promise. A few adjectives to describe my personality. Well for starters, I'm stubborn as hell. I'm extremely visual, and for that reason I seem to have a picture in my head of how things should be, how scenarios should play out, what should be done. Although I've taught myself to control it (somewhat), I tend to only like doing things my way, which can be both a blessing, and a pain in the butt. Another adjective would be hard working. Not hard working like "Good job, Timmy! You finished all of your work on time! You get a gold star so that everyone can see what a hard worker you are." No. I'm a hard worker in that what I see as important gets done, and gets done quickly. Of course, my teenage dirtbag laziness combats this trait quite a bit, but I'm usually able to get all of the nap taking, netflix watching, and overeating out on the weekends. But ask me to show up for a service project at 7:00 in the morning, and I'm usually there. Just as long as I have my coffee. Lastly, I'm loyal to the people I care about. I can and do keep the secrets of those who trust me with them, and I don't hesitate to help a friend who I care about. I'm consistent with my close friend group, and honestly I couldn't imagine the hell that school would be like without them.

The last, and possibly the most important thing I carry with me are memories; they are the reason I think the way I think, why I act the way I act. Whether it be the memory of indescribable fear of being lost as a child that leads me to help someone who feels the same way, or the memory of what a standing ovation feels like when you're underneath those bright lights that makes me want to show someone the same level of appreciation. What I'm getting at is that my memories (even though I can't think of an extremely specific one to share at the moment), good or bad, are what help me to feel empathy, a trait which I try to demonstrate, most of the time failing however. Because let's be honest, if everyone were as empathetic as they held themselves to be, well...

So. Now that that's all out there, who do you love, how do you love? What in life do you really want? What do you think of yourself, good and bad? Figure it out! What do you carry, and why on earth do you carry it?