The Bird

Every once in a while something inside me just snaps when it comes to academia. I can handle moronic behavior, really, let's face it--we're talking about me here. But what I can't stand is a professor saying the same inane things every time the class adjourns, running about in a frazzled manner equivalent to that of a dodo bird on crack, all the while arbitrarily oozing the education level of a pre-pubescent child. 

Suddenly, all those little moments add up to a hallucination of epic proportion until my poor little brain says "to hell with academia and your silly teachers".

It escalates like this:

Wait, you're saying you don't want me to analyze the text we are reading in my reflection paper? You say I theorize overmuch? Are my words too big for you? Shall I insist on discarding my vocabulary for your convenience? Well, then, let me reduce it to the lowest common denominator so that your tiny brain cells can compute and your neurons can start firing. You know what? I'll write you a paper. 

Not just any paper. What I like to call The Bird Paper. 

The Bird Paper has evolved a lot over the years. At first, it was a sort of passive way of acknowledging my disgruntled feelings towards professors. Back then, I was still more worried about the grade than anything, couldn't risk the wrath of the almighty teacher. See, but as the years go by, and cynicism festers in the way it generally does, and sarcasm develops even more quickly, I just can't help myself. The Bird Paper is basically my way of flicking said professor off with words. A weapon from a more civilized age. 

I turn in my Bird Paper, scathing criticisms and all fully expecting some challenge, and of course, I get the paper back within five minutes and a glittering A+ strewn across its cover along with an admonition of my "excellent" writing skills. Which leads me to think that I need to just start actually titling my Bird Papers as "You're Complete Rubbish And I Have Absolutely No Idea How You've Managed To Make It This Far In Life Or Get A Degree For That Matter Or Even Get Published You Probably Wrote A Terrible Self Help Book That Has Ended More Lives Than Saved Them."

Something like that.

Of course, it will naturally conclude with this quote:

Mollified,

M

Urges and Satisfaction

An urge will come to you. A very strong one. The universe points to its fulfillment. Humor begs for it. The stars aligned for this urge. This urge to do something completely bonkers. Something completely justifiable. But then, you will listen to your ethical compass, and say no to said urge. Granted, if you gave into the urge, several people would be wildly offended, but even more would be frankly satisfied and all the better for it. Still--resist said urge. Yes, those crackpots who have been chiming in all your life will have to live another day without your input. Someday you will utter the most scathing, wondrous, witty remark and their damned tongues will be tied. Until then, resist said urge. Embrace it and revel in its mysteries. With time, this urge will become all the more beautific and will develop the necessary antiquity needed for its full blown sock 'em and drop 'em KO round. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

Resisting...urges,

M

Battle Arena Motivation

Finding myself completely dumfounded, amused, and slightly wary of the weather these days. It really is ludicrous how brilliantly the sun is shining and how high the temperatures are skyrocketing in Northern MN. Unnatural really. But loving it all the same. See, that's the thing about spring, it always manages to sneak up on me when I least expect it and then I'm suddenly flummoxed by the idea and altogether enthralled with the changing temperatures and weather. I never realize how much I want it to be spring until spring actually begins. Oh, the sun wants to show itself? Oh, it isn't going to set until after seven? Oh, the universe is a beautiful thing that I've forgotten about for the last five months? Come to me spring, I welcome you with open arms.

In a show of good faith towards the weather, I've started running two miles every day. Why, you might ask? Certainly because it's gorgeous outside. But mostly because I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy and have come to the conclusion that I need to be in much better shape to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. The brilliant bit is that preparation goes all ways concerning the apocalypse: I'll be better able to evade zombies, survive the battle arena, and look damn sexy doing it. Sometimes the best motivation is the most unrealistic one. But who knows? Bear Grylls will vouch for me someday. Or just keep drinking his urine.

Definitely surviving the post-apocalyptic world (barring virus),

M

Dull Aches

You'd expect the ache to die out after a while. Expect the spark to finally bluster out in a cold afternoon, expect to watch the coals slowly turn inwards on themselves and leave only the decimation of ash behind. The ache doesn't die, it festers. Aches and desires go together like a balloon in a child's hand, a helium filled piece of stretched rubber that tugs incessantly at the heart until it finally manages to wrest itself from its captive's hand and rise meteorically to the atmosphere and beyond. Ache and desire, the juxtaposition of pain and elation, of fulfillment and doubt. Desire is such a wonton thing, really, grasping at straws and digging deeply for hope in the same breath. 

"How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand that there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold." *

 Some hopes that go to deep, that have taken hold. That have latched onto the deepest parts of the soul, that have invaded the walls of our innermost being, that have decimated any logic, that have thrown thought out the window, thrown questioning into the pit of who-cares. Hope is a more dangerous thing than despair, it aches, it supplants any reasoning, supplants the words of your closely guarded circle, challenges the odds and consumes rhetoric. Hope is wily. Hope laughs in the face of opposition, makes a mockery of the fool who dares to challenge its lofty being.

"You have suffered enough and warred with yourself, it's time that you've won. Take this sinking boat and point it home, we've still got time. Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice, you've made it now. Falling slowly, sing your melody, I'll sing it loud. I paid the cost too late, now you're gone."**

Exult in hope. Exult in the lack of control hope brings, exult in the fallout, in the outcome. Exult in the uncanniness of it all, exult in hope's mockery of all things false, in hope's dull ache. Drown in the elation of this ache, though it burns your heart to a cinder and brings you to the edge of the precipice each time, drown. If there is one magical quality confined to the dull earth and rock of this planet hurtling towards its eventual demise, it's hope. Hope is ache. Hope is desire. Hope is destructive. Hope is regenerative. Hope is.

M

*Frodo Baggins, The Return of the King

**Glen Hansard, Falling Slowly