Sunday, November 29, 2009
Stress
Why are there so many people succumbing to stress and leaving school? I can't handle it - the stress or the departures. I had two breakdowns this weekend. Maybe it has something to do with the weather. I feel like it needs to just snow. That way we can all be washed clean of the stress. That will also help remind us that school is almost over. Just two more weeks and we're home free. This was not the best semester. Hopefully next semester will be better. I'll be in the city a lot and the change of environment will be a breath of fresh air (figuratively, certainly not literally). Getting off campus will be really nice. It's only too bad I couldn't study abroad. That would've been delightful.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A New Bestiary Entry for the Guide to the Gus and Margie Hart Dining Hall
Lingerer [neverus canleavicus]: This observer has noticed that a peculiar sub-group has emerged from every main species - the Lingerer. These creatures have developed from a desire to be both part of the herd and separate from it. Every group from the Sorority Girls to the Theater Geeks to the Weirdos and Loners has a smattering of these individuals. They seem to be trapped in some kind of limbo - being members of both their main group and this sordid sub-group - trying to break free of one and be a full member of the other. But which group they want to abandon is a mystery.
Friday, November 27, 2009
My Issues with 2012
First of all, how is John Cusack the luckiest man alive? Somehow he magically escapes every single time an earthquake creates a giant chasm in the ground? Is that even possible? How does he crawl out of the earth after the giant fireball explodes in Yellowstone? That doesn't even make sense. And why didn't he just take all the damn maps and search through them in the airplane instead of trying to figure out which one Woody Harrelson told him about which was really just a picture of China? How brutal was it to watch John and Amanda take a minute to make love right before John had to go into the gears of the giant ark? Really brutal. Especially since Tamara magically died even though her compartment should have filled up after the one holding Auntie An Mei from The Joy Luck Club and Amanda Peet. How did John Cusack get enough strength to pull a drill out of the gears of the ark? Shouldn't the gears have crushed the drill? That didn't make sense.
Interestingly, the cracks only miraculously missed our heroes and no animals or children were shown dying in the movie. But then, there would have been an uproar about animal or child cruelty as everyone is always concerned for their well-being. But we love watching hot chicks die in movies.
On a more environmental writing note, it was nice to see that the movie ended with what would realistically happen - the oceans would recede and land would surface again. It wouldn't have made sense for the oceans to stay overflowing since there is only so much water. It's not overflowing, it's just displaced.
All in all the special effects were decent, the action sequences were ridiculous, the luck of the pointless protagonist was ridiculous and the acting and writing were terrible.
The only realistic parts about the movie were the amount of destruction, Oliver Platt's corruption (but in truth, realistic agenda), and the fact that the government would take priceless artifacts and rich people over old so-and-so living by himself down the street with his 6 cats.
P.S. Who was surprised the little dog survived? I hope no one, because of course it was going to.
Interestingly, the cracks only miraculously missed our heroes and no animals or children were shown dying in the movie. But then, there would have been an uproar about animal or child cruelty as everyone is always concerned for their well-being. But we love watching hot chicks die in movies.
On a more environmental writing note, it was nice to see that the movie ended with what would realistically happen - the oceans would recede and land would surface again. It wouldn't have made sense for the oceans to stay overflowing since there is only so much water. It's not overflowing, it's just displaced.
All in all the special effects were decent, the action sequences were ridiculous, the luck of the pointless protagonist was ridiculous and the acting and writing were terrible.
The only realistic parts about the movie were the amount of destruction, Oliver Platt's corruption (but in truth, realistic agenda), and the fact that the government would take priceless artifacts and rich people over old so-and-so living by himself down the street with his 6 cats.
P.S. Who was surprised the little dog survived? I hope no one, because of course it was going to.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
It's Been a Few Days
"About a Tree"
-in the style of William Carlos Williams
There stood the oak
tall and brown.
Its thousands of green leaves
cascaded around it.
Many acorns
fell to the ground.
-in the style of William Carlos Williams
There stood the oak
tall and brown.
Its thousands of green leaves
cascaded around it.
Many acorns
fell to the ground.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Bland
Awake at 6 -
grey
Awake at 11 -
grey
That weird part of
Fall
when from
Autumn
the season wants to change to
Winter.
Walk out the
Door
my eye glossy like a dirty
Window
stop and lean against the
Wall
outside my building.
Nothing changes;
nothing stays.
Exhausted of seeing naked trees,
no green leaves,
no white clothes.
In bed at 11 -
black
Asleep at 2 -
black
grey
Awake at 11 -
grey
That weird part of
Fall
when from
Autumn
the season wants to change to
Winter.
Walk out the
Door
my eye glossy like a dirty
Window
stop and lean against the
Wall
outside my building.
Nothing changes;
nothing stays.
Exhausted of seeing naked trees,
no green leaves,
no white clothes.
In bed at 11 -
black
Asleep at 2 -
black
Friday, November 13, 2009
Warm Winter?
I am in the process of making my bulletin board for my building. It's about snowmen. Little happy snowmen with their carrot noses, coal buttons and top hats. Delightful. But one of my friends, who shall remain nameless - fine, I won't use last names, Talia S. - said we're not going to have snow. We're going to have a "warm winter." I won't have it, I simply won't have it. I need the snow, the beautiful white to cover the grass, to blanket the lawn. It's my favorite of all the seasons, sitting next to an orange fire with a mug of hot chocolate with a few iceberg marshmallows skimming the surface. I haven't sat next to a fireplace, mesmorized by the flames in quite some time. I resolve to do so this season. I do so hope to have snow. I want to go sledding and sit by my window to watch the flakes float to the ground on Christmas Eve. Who wouldn't want that? Last year I spent Christmas with my family and then drove to Florida to visit my aunt. I was blessed with more family than ever and both poles of seasons - winter and summer all in a week. Delightful. I won't be going there this year, but I can still reminisce, can't I? I wonder what this Christmas will be like, but I think I will drink it in more than ever before. I don't know when I'll have my family together like this again. Who ever really knows.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
New Car
My parents called me to tell me that they bought a new car. It is a Cadillac XLR - a two-seat roadster convertible. My dad works for a Caddy dealership and had this silver beauty come in as a trade-in. It was really nice to hear that they did something for themselves, since as my sister says - and she's right - my parents do for everyone else and never for themselves until now. And it couldn't come at a better time. Almost a year ago, my mother, brother and I were in a horrible car accident in my mom's van so now it's a wreck but she still drives it. So now that she has this beautiful new "bertible," she can drive something killer during the nice weather, which we have. So suck it accident!!!
Cut to three days from now when the snow comes and the roadster goes into the garage for four months.
Cut to three days from now when the snow comes and the roadster goes into the garage for four months.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The May-Flower Project
It’s 2 a.m. when I peer through the dark curtains which shade my room from the blinding sunshine outside. Without hesitation I drop the cloth as the heat and light shocks my eyes. I open my closet to decide on the clothes no one will see me wear. It has been three years, eight week, nine days, twelve hours and fifty-two minutes since Mercury fell out of rotation with the sun and collided with Venus, sending both bodies hurtling into our celestial life and light-giver.
Because of this catastrophe, our home planet has slowly begun to, well not too slowly, travel towards the sun. We’ve now cut the distance between Earth and Sun by about one percent; this means that experts expect us to collide with the large star in roughly three hundred years. Of course by then, it won’t matter to us because all life on Earth will be extinct. In fact, government officials have estimated that by then end of 2027, just six years from now, the surface of the planet will no longer be suitable for any life as temperatures will have risen 5,000 degrees. Not only will all of the ice on the planet have melted, it will effectively have evaporated for eternity. The surface of the earth, they say will be intolerable to walk upon in less than 6 months. Already the temperature outside is up 40 degrees from the average before the collision of Venus and Mercury.
As I look at my computer I see that the temperature outside is 160 degrees and the government has put a ban on excursions outside. On average we only have about 15 minutes of cool weather when the location one lives turns away from the Sun. It may seem implausible, but during those 15 minutes every evening, the temperature drops to negative 23 degrees. It is either feast or famine for us now, but boy do we remember the past. Every day when I wake up and attempt to look outside, I remember being too busy to stop and enjoy the reasonable warmth of the sunshine, the available cool water or a gentle softness of a spring breeze. We have no breezes now, only burning winds which whip through the streets and tear down trees and lampposts. Even if the temperature was not barbeque hot, the winds would discourage, ne deny anyone from stepping outside.
I haven’t been out of my front door in three years. Food is delivered to us each Tuesday and we must keep windows and doors barred at all times to keep out the heat and the wind. I sit at my breakfast table eating my fiber cereal – there’s no reason that just because the world coming to an end, I should stop being regular – and read the news online. Another couple hundred thousand people have died of hunger or heatstroke. People have been dropping more and more each day as the temperature rises and supplies run short.
My eye catches a story about another shuttle launching Wednesday from Minnesota carrying more fortunate refugees from Earth to vast stations on the other side of the galaxy. I sigh and know that it is only a matter of time before those people will need to find themselves someplace else to live. Subsequent to the events of “The Collision” as people have come to call it, the government has tried to colonize other planets such as Mars, Neptune, and even Pluto to no avail. I was surprised to hear about that last one as Pluto was deemed too distant from our home, but I guess it turns out that the leaders of the most affluent countries – the United States, China, Great Britain and other European nations, and Australia – have known about the possibility of the end of Earth for a rather long time and have advanced in space exploration and travel but have failed to inform the rest of the population prior to the incident. It costs several million dollars to charter a seat on one of the spacecrafts and that’s far more than any of the general population has to spare, especially since the banks and stock market have been rendered irrelevant. Like me, most of the public are doomed to live out our sad lives here on our soon-to-be grave.
But I have resigned myself to the fact that I can’t do anything about anything so I live in peace here in my apartment, alone. Most of my family has passed on. I have some relatives in Oregon but it is too extreme outside to venture anywhere. I’ve been alone for the past two and half years, not even a pet or neighbor to speak to. Two and half years of solitaire, TV dinners, Lifetime reruns, and a rather large stockpile of liquor. I finish my bowl of cereal and check my email, ready to see nothing but advertisements for a chance at a long and happy life in space – our new “Heavenly Home” – and sigh as I read just what I expect. About to close my email account, I notice a little exclamation point – an urgent message symbol – next to an email from the May-Flower Project, one of the better, more successful re-colonization projects. I lose my breath as I click on the email and a message pops open – “You’ve Been Selected!”
Because of this catastrophe, our home planet has slowly begun to, well not too slowly, travel towards the sun. We’ve now cut the distance between Earth and Sun by about one percent; this means that experts expect us to collide with the large star in roughly three hundred years. Of course by then, it won’t matter to us because all life on Earth will be extinct. In fact, government officials have estimated that by then end of 2027, just six years from now, the surface of the planet will no longer be suitable for any life as temperatures will have risen 5,000 degrees. Not only will all of the ice on the planet have melted, it will effectively have evaporated for eternity. The surface of the earth, they say will be intolerable to walk upon in less than 6 months. Already the temperature outside is up 40 degrees from the average before the collision of Venus and Mercury.
As I look at my computer I see that the temperature outside is 160 degrees and the government has put a ban on excursions outside. On average we only have about 15 minutes of cool weather when the location one lives turns away from the Sun. It may seem implausible, but during those 15 minutes every evening, the temperature drops to negative 23 degrees. It is either feast or famine for us now, but boy do we remember the past. Every day when I wake up and attempt to look outside, I remember being too busy to stop and enjoy the reasonable warmth of the sunshine, the available cool water or a gentle softness of a spring breeze. We have no breezes now, only burning winds which whip through the streets and tear down trees and lampposts. Even if the temperature was not barbeque hot, the winds would discourage, ne deny anyone from stepping outside.
I haven’t been out of my front door in three years. Food is delivered to us each Tuesday and we must keep windows and doors barred at all times to keep out the heat and the wind. I sit at my breakfast table eating my fiber cereal – there’s no reason that just because the world coming to an end, I should stop being regular – and read the news online. Another couple hundred thousand people have died of hunger or heatstroke. People have been dropping more and more each day as the temperature rises and supplies run short.
My eye catches a story about another shuttle launching Wednesday from Minnesota carrying more fortunate refugees from Earth to vast stations on the other side of the galaxy. I sigh and know that it is only a matter of time before those people will need to find themselves someplace else to live. Subsequent to the events of “The Collision” as people have come to call it, the government has tried to colonize other planets such as Mars, Neptune, and even Pluto to no avail. I was surprised to hear about that last one as Pluto was deemed too distant from our home, but I guess it turns out that the leaders of the most affluent countries – the United States, China, Great Britain and other European nations, and Australia – have known about the possibility of the end of Earth for a rather long time and have advanced in space exploration and travel but have failed to inform the rest of the population prior to the incident. It costs several million dollars to charter a seat on one of the spacecrafts and that’s far more than any of the general population has to spare, especially since the banks and stock market have been rendered irrelevant. Like me, most of the public are doomed to live out our sad lives here on our soon-to-be grave.
But I have resigned myself to the fact that I can’t do anything about anything so I live in peace here in my apartment, alone. Most of my family has passed on. I have some relatives in Oregon but it is too extreme outside to venture anywhere. I’ve been alone for the past two and half years, not even a pet or neighbor to speak to. Two and half years of solitaire, TV dinners, Lifetime reruns, and a rather large stockpile of liquor. I finish my bowl of cereal and check my email, ready to see nothing but advertisements for a chance at a long and happy life in space – our new “Heavenly Home” – and sigh as I read just what I expect. About to close my email account, I notice a little exclamation point – an urgent message symbol – next to an email from the May-Flower Project, one of the better, more successful re-colonization projects. I lose my breath as I click on the email and a message pops open – “You’ve Been Selected!”
Monday, November 9, 2009
I Got Very Sick Today
I think I might have the flu. I am up now because I slept since 6pm when I came home to see my Registered Nurse mother. I am going to be so pissed if I have the flu. I bet I contracted it from this beautiful weather. So irritating. I was supposed to go to a rockin' jazz festival in the city at the Chopin but I almost passed out at work so I eighty-sixed that idea. I'm starting to feel better so hopefully I will be well tomorrow. While I was up I decided to purchase my domain name and create a website. It is definitely still under construction but if you have a chance, please visit. I'm going to try to continue my blog from that site once this class is finished. I like the idea of a blog, let's just see if I can keep it up now that I'm back on track. The last few posts have been short, but just wait until my next one. I'm posting my apocalypse narrative - and it's sequel, the post-apocalypse narrative!!! Check back soon!
Come visit:
mariomazzetti.com
Come visit:
mariomazzetti.com
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Car Wash
Got my car washed today. First time in three months. It was disgusting - the car, not the carwash. Hopefully it won't rain within the next week or so. I'll be pissed since I only have a two-day guarantee on the wash. I'm torn between whether or not I want the weather to stay this way or change to winter. I think that I could go for another couple weeks of nice warm weather but I definitely want a white Christmas. I love winter. It's my favorite season. I already like to stay indoors but winter gives me the perfect excuse. And it looks so beautiful, doesn't it?
Saturday, November 7, 2009
What Crazy Weather We've Had
Today was the first day in a long time I've actually taken time to take note of the weather and boy was it a perfect day to do so. Twice today I was blessed to feel the warmth of the 70 degree Indian summer. I knew we'd have one this year since the real summer was so shifty. I don't remember such a fickle season and know we are feeling the effects of it. Both times I enjoyed the weather today were brief but delightful, just passing through outside, determined to complete my business. But, oh, joy when I felt the heat and disrobed - just my coat - to take in the sunshine. I don't know how long it will last, but while it's here, I am going to try to make the most of it. Maybe this week, if it's not too cold, I finally make that journey to the beach I keep putting off.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Response to Chicago Trip
It has been twenty days since my last post, but here is my response to the trip to Chicago:
Incongruous Aesthetics
Is there no place to stay when you leave the train station? I look down to see footprints travelers have left behind in their mad dash to their next destination. Truly the station platform stands as a liminal space, a threshold between the past and future. The rain falls with the temperature but the coldness I feel at the Clyborn stop is intangible, unspoken. Almost in an instant, the passengers from the train disappear beneath the tracks, eager to distance themselves from this unappealing and unwelcoming place. I have passed through this area before, its towering billboards the only trees and the bellow of the traffic the only call of nature. Even on its brightest day, Clyborn is still hue-less.
I leave the platform devoid of color, and I stand in amazement at how much blue splashes the sides of the buildings between the strain station and the industrial park. I heard somewhere that blue is the most difficult color to gather from nature. If this is true then it stands to reason I should see so much of it here, where machinery suffocates nature and garbage sprouts from the ground. Nearby the gritty Mobile gas station the war zone of the scrap metal yard drips with the carnage of battle. The gnashing teeth of the crane gnaw at the carcasses of cars and refrigerators. Just down the street, a man struggles his shopping cart on his pilgrimage to the Mecca of the metal yard. He travels to offer his sacrifice of a rusted and warped beam. Screeching metal tears the air and stings my ears. The unimaginable violence of the metal yard arrests me; I cannot look away but force myself to.
Beneath an overpass life teams, unseen and unacknowledged. Traffic signs tagged by Emma and Jack give pause – why didn’t Jack respond to Emma? Her name appears twice, his just once. Their love story lingers in my mind as I pass through the curtain of rain into the sunlight. Suddenly color bursts before me, all at once I’m greeted with burnt sienna, crimson, jade. A rainbow of vines hug the concrete of the overpass in an array of hues I’ve never seen before. I remember at once that autumn has arrived and a smile crosses my face, relief that nature still survives.
Just beyond the scrap metal yard, in the blue of the industrial zone, molten steel boils in gargantuan pots above Vulcan fires. The workers find respite in the drizzle from the hell-fires which consume their daily lives. It seems almost god-less, the wet heat of the steel mill hangs heavy in the air and I cannot linger even nearby. I hurry away from the torturous flames; I find myself engrossed in the first patch of greenery – a clearly landscaped patch of grass just beyond the steel mill inferno.
This plot lives so out of place that its simple beauty transfixes me. The verdant patch defies the surrounding grey and brown world. Would the grass have a chance of survival without the help of whoever attends to it? And why was this place chosen for such a manicured piece of lawn? My answer comes to me before I can complete the question – ahead of me looms Lincoln Park. The patch of grass is the first few bricks of the yellow brick road Dorothy encounters. From here the well-cared for scenery expands to a the bustling neighborhood, home to a portion of the upper-class white Chicago populace
With its yuppie inhabitants ready to spend, Lincoln Park swarms with coffee shops, restaurants, high-end retail stores and costly apartments. On my journey to the Damen Brown Line “L,” I saw at least three law firms, two dental practices and countless neo-turreted condominiums. How is it that this neighborhood of wealthy urbanites borders the gruesome metal yard with its occasional straggling sojourner? The dichotomy between these two places staggers me. With one quick step the atmosphere transitions from industrial work, hard labor and gritty lifestyles to expensive shops, modern restaurants and well-kept lawns. A journey from a Metra station to a CTA station just blocks down the street tells the story of the changing environment living in a city I’ve visited so many times but failed to acknowledge. Beauty lies even in the violence of the scrap metal yard, in the heat of the steel mill flames, in the solice of the threshold patch of greenery, in the arrogance of the yuppie neighborhood. I think the vines clinging to the overpass exemplify the incongruous but undeniable aesthetics of the area. It is living art.
Incongruous Aesthetics
Is there no place to stay when you leave the train station? I look down to see footprints travelers have left behind in their mad dash to their next destination. Truly the station platform stands as a liminal space, a threshold between the past and future. The rain falls with the temperature but the coldness I feel at the Clyborn stop is intangible, unspoken. Almost in an instant, the passengers from the train disappear beneath the tracks, eager to distance themselves from this unappealing and unwelcoming place. I have passed through this area before, its towering billboards the only trees and the bellow of the traffic the only call of nature. Even on its brightest day, Clyborn is still hue-less.
I leave the platform devoid of color, and I stand in amazement at how much blue splashes the sides of the buildings between the strain station and the industrial park. I heard somewhere that blue is the most difficult color to gather from nature. If this is true then it stands to reason I should see so much of it here, where machinery suffocates nature and garbage sprouts from the ground. Nearby the gritty Mobile gas station the war zone of the scrap metal yard drips with the carnage of battle. The gnashing teeth of the crane gnaw at the carcasses of cars and refrigerators. Just down the street, a man struggles his shopping cart on his pilgrimage to the Mecca of the metal yard. He travels to offer his sacrifice of a rusted and warped beam. Screeching metal tears the air and stings my ears. The unimaginable violence of the metal yard arrests me; I cannot look away but force myself to.
Beneath an overpass life teams, unseen and unacknowledged. Traffic signs tagged by Emma and Jack give pause – why didn’t Jack respond to Emma? Her name appears twice, his just once. Their love story lingers in my mind as I pass through the curtain of rain into the sunlight. Suddenly color bursts before me, all at once I’m greeted with burnt sienna, crimson, jade. A rainbow of vines hug the concrete of the overpass in an array of hues I’ve never seen before. I remember at once that autumn has arrived and a smile crosses my face, relief that nature still survives.
Just beyond the scrap metal yard, in the blue of the industrial zone, molten steel boils in gargantuan pots above Vulcan fires. The workers find respite in the drizzle from the hell-fires which consume their daily lives. It seems almost god-less, the wet heat of the steel mill hangs heavy in the air and I cannot linger even nearby. I hurry away from the torturous flames; I find myself engrossed in the first patch of greenery – a clearly landscaped patch of grass just beyond the steel mill inferno.
This plot lives so out of place that its simple beauty transfixes me. The verdant patch defies the surrounding grey and brown world. Would the grass have a chance of survival without the help of whoever attends to it? And why was this place chosen for such a manicured piece of lawn? My answer comes to me before I can complete the question – ahead of me looms Lincoln Park. The patch of grass is the first few bricks of the yellow brick road Dorothy encounters. From here the well-cared for scenery expands to a the bustling neighborhood, home to a portion of the upper-class white Chicago populace
With its yuppie inhabitants ready to spend, Lincoln Park swarms with coffee shops, restaurants, high-end retail stores and costly apartments. On my journey to the Damen Brown Line “L,” I saw at least three law firms, two dental practices and countless neo-turreted condominiums. How is it that this neighborhood of wealthy urbanites borders the gruesome metal yard with its occasional straggling sojourner? The dichotomy between these two places staggers me. With one quick step the atmosphere transitions from industrial work, hard labor and gritty lifestyles to expensive shops, modern restaurants and well-kept lawns. A journey from a Metra station to a CTA station just blocks down the street tells the story of the changing environment living in a city I’ve visited so many times but failed to acknowledge. Beauty lies even in the violence of the scrap metal yard, in the heat of the steel mill flames, in the solice of the threshold patch of greenery, in the arrogance of the yuppie neighborhood. I think the vines clinging to the overpass exemplify the incongruous but undeniable aesthetics of the area. It is living art.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday's Blog Assignment
The octogenarian of the forest lifted the bundle of twigs she had gathered for kindling and lumbered towards the shanty she called home. The house, in truth a single room, consisted of four walls, and curtains which separated the abode into three sections. To the right was the bedroom, to the left, the kitchen, and ahead, the dining and living room. The octogenarian lived in her quaint house in the heart of the woods in solitude. Her family had passed on years before, and by herself she was content to abide. Each morning the woman would rouse to the call of the bluebirds who housed in the oak adjacent her house. She would give in to sleep at night, lulled by the neighboring owl's screech.
Every two weeks or so, the octogenarian found it necessary to trek into town to visit the convenience store to purchase bullets for her shotgun, flour for her biscuits, and salt to preserve her venison. The most recent visit to the general store found the woman matching her wits against the new owner of the shop. She had requested pectin so she could make her yearly jams of strawberry and a wild berry mix. Upon her arrival at the convenience store the woman expected to collect her long-awaited gelling agent but alas the owner had forgotten to enter the order into the layaway log. The old woman found herself without the necessary ingredient for her preserves. Having journeyed for miles to make the pectin pilgrimage, the woman tore into the clerk at the store in her rage over lost time and energy. She left the convenience store sans pectin and ambled back along the 14 mile trail to her woodland haven.
Every two weeks or so, the octogenarian found it necessary to trek into town to visit the convenience store to purchase bullets for her shotgun, flour for her biscuits, and salt to preserve her venison. The most recent visit to the general store found the woman matching her wits against the new owner of the shop. She had requested pectin so she could make her yearly jams of strawberry and a wild berry mix. Upon her arrival at the convenience store the woman expected to collect her long-awaited gelling agent but alas the owner had forgotten to enter the order into the layaway log. The old woman found herself without the necessary ingredient for her preserves. Having journeyed for miles to make the pectin pilgrimage, the woman tore into the clerk at the store in her rage over lost time and energy. She left the convenience store sans pectin and ambled back along the 14 mile trail to her woodland haven.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
A Sad Week
I am not even going to attempt to make up the last week of posts. I spent most of the week trapped in class or on the stage in Rent. I don't think I saw an inch of nature between the stage door and the classroom door and my bedroom door. It has been brutal. In my attempt to find the class on Friday at the Middlefork Savanna, I became very anxious and aggravated my already death of a cold. I spent all of Friday, Saturday and Sunday asleep. Truth be told, I don't feel rested now. Hopefully the next couple of weeks won't be so murderous to my health and sanity.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday's Posting a Little Late
First draft of a poem I wrote for Creatvie Exercise #3:
Road scores the ravine.
See where the ground is
Modified? Altered?
The tight valley twists,
Winds its way unmarred
Through the lush forest
‘Til it meets the road.
The canyon changes course,
Suppressed to surrender.
Succumbs to the street.
Leafy disguises
Hide the truth.
Trees are a device
To persuade.
To manipulate
They aren’t real.
Do you blind yourself
To mutilation?
Road scores the ravine.
See where the ground is
Modified? Altered?
The tight valley twists,
Winds its way unmarred
Through the lush forest
‘Til it meets the road.
The canyon changes course,
Suppressed to surrender.
Succumbs to the street.
Leafy disguises
Hide the truth.
Trees are a device
To persuade.
To manipulate
They aren’t real.
Do you blind yourself
To mutilation?
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Porch Party
Tonight we had a Res Life program. It was so successful. In Moore there is a double whose door is off the lounge. It has a landing in front of it and the boys who live in that room have named it the Porch. We decided to have a cookout on the "Porch" tonight with George Foreman Grills. It was so successful. We had 30 people come through during the hour of the program. It was fun to grill in the building. It's like the closest thing to a camping trip or a cookout I've had in a long time. I also went to Deerpath Middle School to have my car washed by the hockey team. That was fun. My car has not been cleaned in months. Shelly really needed a bath.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday Night Duty
Tonight I'm on duty for Res Life. I have not been outside at all today, save a half an hour, because I spent the day driving a car to Merilville, Indiana for my father's business. Then I had to get back to school for our Remembering Patrick Swayze movie night. I was outside for a half an hour of relaxation with that damn chiminea. That was it. To roast a marshmallow. Next week is going to be a nightmare and I will probably miss each night's posting.
Missed Thursday
Missed Thursday's post because I was without any down-time all day and almost passed out in the evening from a nausea-inducing migraine. Here was my schedule:
9:00am - up and dressed
9:30am-11:00am - a cappella
11:00am-12:00am - res life staff meeting
12:00pm-1:00pm - voice lesson master class
1:00pm-2:30pm - senior seminar
2:30pm-4:00pm - catch-up on work
4:00pm-6:00pm - choir
6:00pm-12:00am - rehearsal (including drive to des plaines)
Brutal
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Bugs
"Our ability to perceive quality in nature begins, as in art, with the pretty. It expands through successive stages of the beautiful to values as yet uncaptured by language."
-Aldo Leopold A Sand County Almanac
Yesterday I was walking to Reid Hall and I stopped in that little archway - the walkthrough between the Chapel and Reid - and I looked down to see the most interesting-looking caterpillar. It's furry body was tan with several sections of black hair. I was enthralled with the creature and spent the next 10 minutes observing its habits. It would lift its upper body to search for something to grab onto but I had it on my notebook so nothing else was available. After enjoying the torture of an unfamiliar situation I had inflicted on the caterpillar, I brought the insect to a safe haven next to the building. I placed it on the leaf of a tall plant and watched it crawl away. The animal was so - beautiful. One could say it was pretty, it was sort of cute and cuddly-looking, but pretty isn't really the word for it. Beautiful is the best way to describe it. Everything about it was beautiful - its appearance, its actions and habits, and its clear thought process as it scrambled for a place of safety to which to crawl.
Last night I was in my room and about to go to bed when, as I was placing my phone on my window ledge after setting my alarm for the morning, I lifted my water bottle and saw a large centipede lounging on the sill. As I went to suck it into my Dustbuster, it startled and skittered away. I was able to trap it in my buster and in its captivity, I studied it for a few minutes. It was rather long - one and a half to two inches - brown with many legs and two long twitchy antennae. It was a fast little thing and I had difficulty catching it but I did in the end and it is now dried up and curled in my machine. Sadly it had to die so I could feel comfortable in my bed, but once again I recognize the beauty of the animal. There was nothing pretty about the centipede, but it was certainly beautiful. It had spots of brown all over it and its feelers were in constant motion. I was taken aback by its speed as it escaped my Dustbuster. I am saddened that I had to kill it, but I never would have been able to last the night.
-Aldo Leopold A Sand County Almanac
Yesterday I was walking to Reid Hall and I stopped in that little archway - the walkthrough between the Chapel and Reid - and I looked down to see the most interesting-looking caterpillar. It's furry body was tan with several sections of black hair. I was enthralled with the creature and spent the next 10 minutes observing its habits. It would lift its upper body to search for something to grab onto but I had it on my notebook so nothing else was available. After enjoying the torture of an unfamiliar situation I had inflicted on the caterpillar, I brought the insect to a safe haven next to the building. I placed it on the leaf of a tall plant and watched it crawl away. The animal was so - beautiful. One could say it was pretty, it was sort of cute and cuddly-looking, but pretty isn't really the word for it. Beautiful is the best way to describe it. Everything about it was beautiful - its appearance, its actions and habits, and its clear thought process as it scrambled for a place of safety to which to crawl.
Last night I was in my room and about to go to bed when, as I was placing my phone on my window ledge after setting my alarm for the morning, I lifted my water bottle and saw a large centipede lounging on the sill. As I went to suck it into my Dustbuster, it startled and skittered away. I was able to trap it in my buster and in its captivity, I studied it for a few minutes. It was rather long - one and a half to two inches - brown with many legs and two long twitchy antennae. It was a fast little thing and I had difficulty catching it but I did in the end and it is now dried up and curled in my machine. Sadly it had to die so I could feel comfortable in my bed, but once again I recognize the beauty of the animal. There was nothing pretty about the centipede, but it was certainly beautiful. It had spots of brown all over it and its feelers were in constant motion. I was taken aback by its speed as it escaped my Dustbuster. I am saddened that I had to kill it, but I never would have been able to last the night.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Finally a Post on Time
So I don't have much to say except that I am very happy to post a blog entry before the day closes so I actually have one online when it's supposed to be up. I didn't go anywhere outdoorsy (of course) but I am happy to be in the theater again. The show's lookin' good.
Sunday and Monday's Missed Posts
Sunday: In the city. Saw two shows at the Chopin - one last night, one today. Met with Lela, who is the co-owner of the theatre with her husband, Zygmunt. They are wonderful. I will be interning with them next semester. Actually, I'll be starting this semester sporadically and then going full force next semester. The building is beatiful. The owners live upstairs. The first floor has a large stage in which I have seen a musical, a performance art piece and a Shakespeare show. Downstairs in the small black box space I have seen two plays - one of which was very naturalistic (meaning they created an atmosphere that more acurately represented the real world). It was Desire Under the Elms. The company had covered the floor of the space, all the way into the audience, with mulch. It engaged the senses of smell and taste in the performance as well as sight, hearing and touch. It was a beautiful production and one of the reasons I like the Chopin so much. It is so versatile and caters to the needs of the production. The lobbies of the theater is decorated with hundreds of paintings, antique couches, flowers, mirrors and at least 6 bathrooms. Downstairs is a vibrant meeting room in which Sunday mornings see weekly engagements for companies and organizations. There are two bars and it is one of the only smaller, independently owned theaters to have a liquor liscense. I am so excited about working there I told Lela I would do anything from run productions to bartend to copy invoices to clean. I CAN'T WAIT!
Monday: First rehearsal in the theater space for Rent. It's the Prairie Lakes Theatre in Des Plaines. What a beautiful space!! We are so lucky to be out of the conference room at the Winnetka Community House and in the performance space TWO WEEKS before the show opens. That's like unheard of! In any event the theater has a huge house, WITH a balcony. It has two dressing rooms, a shower and a green room. It is totally equity rules approved. They mean business here. I can't wait to open a week from Friday. I hope everyoen can come!!!
Monday: First rehearsal in the theater space for Rent. It's the Prairie Lakes Theatre in Des Plaines. What a beautiful space!! We are so lucky to be out of the conference room at the Winnetka Community House and in the performance space TWO WEEKS before the show opens. That's like unheard of! In any event the theater has a huge house, WITH a balcony. It has two dressing rooms, a shower and a green room. It is totally equity rules approved. They mean business here. I can't wait to open a week from Friday. I hope everyoen can come!!!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Saturday's Missed Post
Saturday: I was home with my family all day. My four-year-old cousin, Fox, was with us. I filled the little blue kiddie pool with warm water for him and he played for an hour or so, contently and quietly, by himself. I was so tired from being on Duty the night before and having to get up early for another doctor's appointment. After he had had enough of the water, we sat by the chiminea that my father had bought (previously I said it exploded - it did not, though we thought it would, he certainly didn't follow the directions though and now it's black on the outside because of the too-large flames from the first fire he built). We made s'mores and I was happily reminded of camping. They say that smell is the sense more closely connected with memory. I totally agree. I didn't care that after we were done with the s'mores and I went to the city to meet the owner of the Chopin Theatre I smelled like a campground. I didn't care because the scent of the burning would and the roasting marshmallows brought me back ten years to when we would drive our pop-up camper to Wisconsin and spend the weekend by a lake or near the woods. We don't do that anymore. We don't have time and since we sold it, we don't have the camper. It's actually really sad when I think about it. That camper had seen us through years and years of trips, several tornadoes, countless thunderstorms and thousands of miles on the road. I'm surprised it's still alive. But it is, well at least I imagine it is. My dad was so sad to sell it because of all the memories we had made. I told him it was good that we sold the camper, because now the family who bought it, who had a little boy to raise, could take that camper to Wisconsin, to those same campgrounds, and make their own memories.
Thursday and Friday's Missed Post
I am horrible at keeping up with this blog, but I'm trying to get in the swing of things.
Thursday: Stuck in class, work and traffic safety school all day and all night. I had not once stepped out into the decent weather. brutal.
Friday: Saw a car accident just before my doctor's appointment. Two cars had run off the road while trying to avoid hitting each other. They both ended up in ditches on opposite sides of the road from where they were coming. The tow truck couldn't get them out. It was like mother nature was laughing at the booby trap that was the ditches which she had sprung on the two cars. This all took place right outside the Barrington Equine center. The horses had all scattered because of the screaming tires as the two cars crossed paths and fell off the road. I had to take an alternate route - a very dangerous winding road that took me around the back roads of Barrington. Of course when I came around the correct road the cars had been pulled to safety and the way was clear. I was back by the entrance to the Equine Center and it made me want to go horseback riding again. Not that I am a trained horseback rider or do it often, but I have ridden before and have always wanted to do it again. I think that will be my goal this year - to go horseback riding before I graduate. I love the connection one has with the horse. There's such a bond. It's less of riding the horse and having control but relinquishing control or at least sharing it with the animal. Yes, I need to do it again. I just hope I don't find I've become allergic to horses as my mom is.
Thursday: Stuck in class, work and traffic safety school all day and all night. I had not once stepped out into the decent weather. brutal.
Friday: Saw a car accident just before my doctor's appointment. Two cars had run off the road while trying to avoid hitting each other. They both ended up in ditches on opposite sides of the road from where they were coming. The tow truck couldn't get them out. It was like mother nature was laughing at the booby trap that was the ditches which she had sprung on the two cars. This all took place right outside the Barrington Equine center. The horses had all scattered because of the screaming tires as the two cars crossed paths and fell off the road. I had to take an alternate route - a very dangerous winding road that took me around the back roads of Barrington. Of course when I came around the correct road the cars had been pulled to safety and the way was clear. I was back by the entrance to the Equine Center and it made me want to go horseback riding again. Not that I am a trained horseback rider or do it often, but I have ridden before and have always wanted to do it again. I think that will be my goal this year - to go horseback riding before I graduate. I love the connection one has with the horse. There's such a bond. It's less of riding the horse and having control but relinquishing control or at least sharing it with the animal. Yes, I need to do it again. I just hope I don't find I've become allergic to horses as my mom is.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Wednesday's Missed Post
Wednesday - Well, I didn't go to the beach on Monday, like I had planned. Instead I stayed in all night. I don't know why, but I can't seem to push myself to enjoy the weather. Once again I find myself in the horns of a dillemma. I remember freshman year when I would walk to the beach on many nights. The waves are so calming, the crash so relaxing. When Maria was talking about going to the beach and seeing the water as a mother with open arms, I couldn't have said it better myself. I feel exactly the same way. I love looking at the moonlight dancing on the mirror surface of the water. Despite how cliched that is, it's so true. Just the thought of floating out into the water to let all my problems, thoughts, worries and regrets wash away is so comforting. Maybe that's why I wanted to go to the lake in the first place - to get away. It's my escape - at least it would be if I could tear myself away from all my obligations in the real world.
Monday's Missed Post
Monday - I didn't go to the lake. Why would I? I only had several hours of nothing to do that could've been enjoyed by the beach. That was dumb.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
My Car is a Woman's Body
My car is a woman's body.
More specifically, my car is a surrogate mother
To me and the interior,
Her womb.
Inside the car
I am protected from the outside world
Reaching for me,
Clawing at me,
Throwing its demands at me.
When driving in my car
I am separate from everything outside.
I am lost inside
I hear no din from the world.
I let my voice fly
Freely and fearlessly
Knowing that while
The heartbeat of my mother's engine drowns out
The noise of others I am secure to sing in solitude.
My car's name is Shelley.
She can be tempermental and stubborn
And the phrase, "C'mon Shelley"
Has been both a plea for her to do her duty
And words of encouragement -
My vote of confidence that she can make it those last few miles.
She's been beaten,
Scratched,
Egged,
Broken,
Lost,
Scolded.
But Shelley,
My Chevrolet Metro,
Has gotten me through six years of travel
And I know she'll be with me through many more.
She's an old lady,
But has not whithered her.
More specifically, my car is a surrogate mother
To me and the interior,
Her womb.
Inside the car
I am protected from the outside world
Reaching for me,
Clawing at me,
Throwing its demands at me.
When driving in my car
I am separate from everything outside.
I am lost inside
I hear no din from the world.
I let my voice fly
Freely and fearlessly
Knowing that while
The heartbeat of my mother's engine drowns out
The noise of others I am secure to sing in solitude.
My car's name is Shelley.
She can be tempermental and stubborn
And the phrase, "C'mon Shelley"
Has been both a plea for her to do her duty
And words of encouragement -
My vote of confidence that she can make it those last few miles.
She's been beaten,
Scratched,
Egged,
Broken,
Lost,
Scolded.
But Shelley,
My Chevrolet Metro,
Has gotten me through six years of travel
And I know she'll be with me through many more.
She's an old lady,
But has not whithered her.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Late Night Post Make Up
Last night as I sat in my room on duty I thought back on the day, wishing I had joined the many students basking in the sun and warm weather on the lawn. I did go to a barbeque for a while, but I let my bad time management get away from me and now I'd lost the day to homework I put off. I'd been a prisoner of my computer and my room and had had no fun in the sun.
Sunday Night - A Decision
Again I spent the day in doors. I don't know why I'm wasting the time I have to be outside but I feel like my time is so monopolized by my work. I arranged my schedule this semester so that I could have two days off each week - Tuesdays and Fridays. That is not really happening. I've found myself filling those days with meetings, rehearsals, work, naps. Not once have I sat in the quad or ventured to the beach. I loathe that I have really no free time. It seems that I don't have the time to complete anything and when I do have time I'm trying to catch up on sleep. I think that the next evening I have the chance I will go for a walk. I used to love to walk to the beach and listen to the waves. It was just such a relaxing and freeing sound. But now I have no time and more importantly no energy. Maybe, if I make the effort to trek to the beach I will feel invigortated. I would really like that. I think that will be my plan for the week. I have rehearsal Tuesday and Thursday so I will be really tired after that and Friday and Saturday I have duty, but Monday and Wednesday I have nothing in the evening. That's that. Tomorrow night I'm going to walk to the beach, maybe with a friend, maybe by myself. I don't care, either way I'm going to hear those breaking waves in person!
Friday, September 4, 2009
My First Post: Thin and Thick Description
I will explain my blog later but for now, please enjoy this entry of thin and thick descriptions of two locations: Shooting Star Savanna and Hixon Hall.
Shooting Star Savanna:
The Shooting Star Savanna has lots of thick, barky trees reaching up to create a canopy above. It seems to stretch far and wide out north of the Johnson Science Center. Two squirrels scramble down a nearby tree trunk and disappear into the underbrush - a dense carpet of tall grasses accented with striking yellow blossoms atop waist-high stalks. One can hear birds chirping and callin gin the forest beyond and the winds sends a rustle through the foliage overhead. Facing awway from the Science Center into the trees, the only manmade residents of the savanna are the occasional infromational sign and the stone council circle on which one sits. Life and death seem to be one in this landscape as the arbor climbing towards the sky are countered by the lifeless stumps and forgotten logs which pepper the floor of the mini-forest. With the sun hidden by the leafy curtain alone, the wind blows from the south and carries a cold touch of fall. A lone ant mozies the length of a large leaf and comes to settle in the center. Despite the lack of manmade objects, the occaisional roar of a car or motorcycle slices through the rustle of wind. A twig snaps and I look to see the cause but there is no movement. Whjile looking in the direction of the noise a single white flower catches my eye, capturing my attention from the sea of green with its yellow froth. The lone blossom calls my name from its perch next to a tree. It basks in the spotlight the sun has thrown its way.
I can't help but wonder what lies deep in the Savanna. I want to leave the council circle and venture further until I can't see the buildings that for so long have represented Lake Forest College. I wonder if there are more of those beautiful white flowers nestled somewhere else in the wood and what they represent, or if there are none and that white blossom is just another of the yellow ones nearby that was unable to sustain. What then would that mean for this landscape? This is not the first time I have paid a visit to Shooting Star Savanna but I know that many people have never seen it. As the years pass, it seems the new generation of Foresters is aware less and less of their surroundings. They only know of the new student center and the new library and soon the new sports center. Will they come to know or even to visit or at least to know of the savanna before it is cut down and replaced with some new and potentially unnecessary building. I see that lone white blossom and identify with it. It reaches for the sun while the other yellow flowers linger in the darkness, overshadowed by those who came before them. The trees seem to represent the ubiquitous “they” who’ve set precedents and the yellow growths, those who follow. I take my cue from that out-standing white flower and search for my own spotlight.
Hixon Hall:
The converted carriage house on South Campus is a dismal looking structure. It's barn like design does not seem to speak to an actor as an ideal performance space, nor does a random passerby think the building is a theater much less a storage space. The overgrown bushes envelope the side of the building and vines climb the walls and support beams. Several large oak trees shade the building from the sun and cast dark shadows from the lamps that surround the building at night. The cobblestone path leading to the building is cracked from the weight of so many trucks and people trampling to pass the building or unload supplies. One enters the building to see a quaint, some would say tiny, lobby complete with a rickety old spiral staircase which snakes its way to the cozy, some would say cramped, tech booth above. Upon entering the performance space proper, one sees that it is a large black box with dusty risers stacked against the Southern most wall below the booth. The space is intimate, some would size small, and seems to be convertable. Though the room is devoid of color and remains in darkness, nature is not bannished from the area. A leak of rain water plops from several holes in the ceiling and a vine creeps in from the outside. The musty smell of age gives the building its unique, weathered and worn character.
Hixon Hall, and therefore the Alan Carr Theater, holds many memories for me. It was the first college Theater I ever set foot in and it will forever be in my memory as one of the most difficult, dangerous spaces in which I have performed. I have seen cracked floors, shattered windows, leaky roofs. I have experienced broken bones, torn flesh, fights, laughs and love. All in this space. It is my home here on the campus. I come to Hixon to get away from everything else. I come here to smell the must of the mothballs; to taste the heavy air of laughter and tears; to hear the voices of my friends ringing through the rafters and permeating through the walls; to feel my freedom being expressed as never before; to see where my life might be in ten, fifteen, twenty years. Yes, the building is musty, cramped, old, dangerous, smelly. But it is comfort, feedom, love, family and home. Two years ago when the Theater Department decided to make major changes in its operation I saw the reflection of what would happen the Garrick Players in the oldest tree on the property as it was cut down at the roots. The tree had been there as long as Hixon had and to see it destroyed rang through as the future of the company. This building is where I was born and where I've grown up. What would I do without it.
Shooting Star Savanna:
The Shooting Star Savanna has lots of thick, barky trees reaching up to create a canopy above. It seems to stretch far and wide out north of the Johnson Science Center. Two squirrels scramble down a nearby tree trunk and disappear into the underbrush - a dense carpet of tall grasses accented with striking yellow blossoms atop waist-high stalks. One can hear birds chirping and callin gin the forest beyond and the winds sends a rustle through the foliage overhead. Facing awway from the Science Center into the trees, the only manmade residents of the savanna are the occasional infromational sign and the stone council circle on which one sits. Life and death seem to be one in this landscape as the arbor climbing towards the sky are countered by the lifeless stumps and forgotten logs which pepper the floor of the mini-forest. With the sun hidden by the leafy curtain alone, the wind blows from the south and carries a cold touch of fall. A lone ant mozies the length of a large leaf and comes to settle in the center. Despite the lack of manmade objects, the occaisional roar of a car or motorcycle slices through the rustle of wind. A twig snaps and I look to see the cause but there is no movement. Whjile looking in the direction of the noise a single white flower catches my eye, capturing my attention from the sea of green with its yellow froth. The lone blossom calls my name from its perch next to a tree. It basks in the spotlight the sun has thrown its way.
I can't help but wonder what lies deep in the Savanna. I want to leave the council circle and venture further until I can't see the buildings that for so long have represented Lake Forest College. I wonder if there are more of those beautiful white flowers nestled somewhere else in the wood and what they represent, or if there are none and that white blossom is just another of the yellow ones nearby that was unable to sustain. What then would that mean for this landscape? This is not the first time I have paid a visit to Shooting Star Savanna but I know that many people have never seen it. As the years pass, it seems the new generation of Foresters is aware less and less of their surroundings. They only know of the new student center and the new library and soon the new sports center. Will they come to know or even to visit or at least to know of the savanna before it is cut down and replaced with some new and potentially unnecessary building. I see that lone white blossom and identify with it. It reaches for the sun while the other yellow flowers linger in the darkness, overshadowed by those who came before them. The trees seem to represent the ubiquitous “they” who’ve set precedents and the yellow growths, those who follow. I take my cue from that out-standing white flower and search for my own spotlight.
Hixon Hall:
The converted carriage house on South Campus is a dismal looking structure. It's barn like design does not seem to speak to an actor as an ideal performance space, nor does a random passerby think the building is a theater much less a storage space. The overgrown bushes envelope the side of the building and vines climb the walls and support beams. Several large oak trees shade the building from the sun and cast dark shadows from the lamps that surround the building at night. The cobblestone path leading to the building is cracked from the weight of so many trucks and people trampling to pass the building or unload supplies. One enters the building to see a quaint, some would say tiny, lobby complete with a rickety old spiral staircase which snakes its way to the cozy, some would say cramped, tech booth above. Upon entering the performance space proper, one sees that it is a large black box with dusty risers stacked against the Southern most wall below the booth. The space is intimate, some would size small, and seems to be convertable. Though the room is devoid of color and remains in darkness, nature is not bannished from the area. A leak of rain water plops from several holes in the ceiling and a vine creeps in from the outside. The musty smell of age gives the building its unique, weathered and worn character.
Hixon Hall, and therefore the Alan Carr Theater, holds many memories for me. It was the first college Theater I ever set foot in and it will forever be in my memory as one of the most difficult, dangerous spaces in which I have performed. I have seen cracked floors, shattered windows, leaky roofs. I have experienced broken bones, torn flesh, fights, laughs and love. All in this space. It is my home here on the campus. I come to Hixon to get away from everything else. I come here to smell the must of the mothballs; to taste the heavy air of laughter and tears; to hear the voices of my friends ringing through the rafters and permeating through the walls; to feel my freedom being expressed as never before; to see where my life might be in ten, fifteen, twenty years. Yes, the building is musty, cramped, old, dangerous, smelly. But it is comfort, feedom, love, family and home. Two years ago when the Theater Department decided to make major changes in its operation I saw the reflection of what would happen the Garrick Players in the oldest tree on the property as it was cut down at the roots. The tree had been there as long as Hixon had and to see it destroyed rang through as the future of the company. This building is where I was born and where I've grown up. What would I do without it.
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