Culture

Responsibility of the Soul

After a long hiatus, I’m back. I’ve graduated college, and I’m trying to discover where my writing can lead me. With that, I’ve decided to use this blog purely as a personal one, expounding upon what I’ve been learning about myself and about life. I’ll save (most of) the intellectual babble for elsewhere. Let’s cross our fingers and hope for some creative nonfiction.

When I told my friend that I hadn’t gotten the scholarship (hadn’t even gotten an interview at that) I’d painstakingly spent the past several months working on, she merely nodded her head: “How do you feel about it?” I cringed a little bit from the fear that she, like many others, secretly thought it was a fruitless endeavor.

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Culture

Reflections of My Personal Language

I know you all wanted to read my paper on my personal idiolect for History and Structure of the English Language. So, here it is. 

“Oh.  Good. You don’t sound like you’re from the South,” my college roommate sighed in relief into the telephone after we exchanged greetings for the first time. “When I saw you were from South Carolina, I was afraid you were going to have a horrible Southern accent.” I laughed at the statement and made a joke about rednecks but was left mulling over it after the conversation resolved. The thought had never occurred to me before that having a Southern accent was some sort of dialectical abnormality.

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Personal Writing

“Very Good”

I am most assuredly alive, consciously aware, as I hang in this moment of time. The sun is in that moment where the day has largely been spent but has decided to save its magnificence up until now. It has decided, at 6:30 pm on a summer’s evening in Amsterdam, to coat the streets in a sort of shimmering evanescence to which its golden rays are making a last ditch effort towards glory before the day ends. It is this time of the day where it feels like the sun is reaching down to pat you on the back and remind you what it is like to be alive in the presence of beauty. You are in the simplistic joy of sunshine, who seems to say: “I’m going away but I’ll come back. At some point.”

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Personal Writing

Airport Ramblings & Awkward Eye Contact

It’s funny to me that, for the most part, we can always tell when someone is staring at us in the airport.

And it affects us in such strange ways. We suddenly straighten up and shift our mental paradigm to envision what the other person might be seeing: our outfit, what we are carrying, the color of our hair, the awkward way we were just sprawled those uncomfortable leather seats. Continue reading

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Personal Writing

The Elderly Woman on the Corner

Every time I venture home in the afternoon, pulling to a quick halt in front of the obscured street that is easy to miss, and patiently veer my car onto the small street, I can’t help but notice her.

Because she’s always there.

Save, of course, for a few unbearably sticky hot days and days where the rain drips in a steady stream from the gutters of her tiny crooked blue painted brick house. Continue reading

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Personal Writing

Fireflies

My skin is soaked in saltwater; preserved like a taut drum of sea. My hands are sprinkled in red clay cracking at every turn of wrist and finger bend. My body is stretch to dry like those off-white sheets pulled across rope in the backyard of that tiny country house in the Piedmont rolling plains, spotted with apple trees bent down to our tiny hands. Continue reading

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