One thought of many after reading the Book Thief
I may be a Gryffindor…
I may be a Gryffindor…
I may be able to look my opponent in the eye with ferocity of heart and mind, I may be able to intimidate people when they need to back off, I may be able to take verbal abuse day after day from my family…
But I cannot honestly say I know I would react to this when the stakes are death. If war came as it has in the past, would I face it with a scheming glance and a clenched fist, or would I cower under a table while the shrapnel whizzed by?
Then again, so many people had no choice. They couldn’t look death in the eye, couldn’t fight for theirright privilege to live. Yes, it’s a privilege.
It may be a right, but when death is concerned, perception takes a turn.
Death threatened them while they were huddled in a cold basement with dozens of other worried faces. There’s nothing to look at, nowhere to run, only cowering. Your Gryffindor to the Core countenance does not help when all you can do is sit. I suppose, however, you are left with my favorite thing: Being strong for others. If I can hold someone else together I may never know what it feels like to fall apart. In that instance.
Perhaps this aided my wish for an older brother…
Someone that holds me together in the face of my mom’s temper not because I’m helpless- but because I need it, I will learn to stand tall, and holding someone else makes them stronger. (Then again, who's left to hold me...)
I also enjoy books that do force me to cry. That make me love the characters, wonder what became of my own German family in WWII… Great scot, the worry my great grandparents must have been through. Sons in the war, uncles and cousins in Germany, German culture being suffocated in America… Small wonder German wasn’t allowed out of the house. We lost a lot of wonderful heritage. Thanks for instigating that Hitler, make it smart for everyone involved. Including yourself! I’ve been to where you died. Nice parking lot nowadays. I’ve been to where you sent Jews. Stood where your men shot them. Stood where they fell. Felt the examining table on which ‘medical experiments’ occurred. This was also where an impromptu orchestra met. I could hear the music bouncing off the walls.
I could hear nothing in the basement of that place where the bodies were stacked.
Stacked.
You don’t STACK people.
Wasn’t duplo in Germany by then? Sheesh.
I digress.
I must say, even if writing makes me lose a bit of the sincerity that words spoken to the air or to a mirror can contain, I can at the very least retrace my steps.
Or at least the ones that surface.
Books that force me to cry can be wonderful. They make me angry and sad all at once, and then tears. Not a lot. But enough to make up for the myriad of times in which I have avoided crying.
From that bomb of a 65 I received on my unfinished theory test (I HAVE NEVER RECEIVED THAT BAD OF A GRADE IN MY ENTIRE LIFE! I GET SICK OVER RECEIVING AN 87!!!!) to when mom told me with much spite that I had given her the worst mothers’ day ever.
I hate spite.
I hate things said out of spite.
I may be a Gryffindor…
I may be a Gryffindor…
I may be able to look my opponent in the eye with ferocity of heart and mind, I may be able to intimidate people when they need to back off, I may be able to take verbal abuse day after day from my family…
But I cannot honestly say I know I would react to this when the stakes are death. If war came as it has in the past, would I face it with a scheming glance and a clenched fist, or would I cower under a table while the shrapnel whizzed by?
Then again, so many people had no choice. They couldn’t look death in the eye, couldn’t fight for their
Death threatened them while they were huddled in a cold basement with dozens of other worried faces. There’s nothing to look at, nowhere to run, only cowering. Your Gryffindor to the Core countenance does not help when all you can do is sit. I suppose, however, you are left with my favorite thing: Being strong for others. If I can hold someone else together I may never know what it feels like to fall apart. In that instance.
Perhaps this aided my wish for an older brother…
Someone that holds me together in the face of my mom’s temper not because I’m helpless- but because I need it, I will learn to stand tall, and holding someone else makes them stronger. (Then again, who's left to hold me...)
I also enjoy books that do force me to cry. That make me love the characters, wonder what became of my own German family in WWII… Great scot, the worry my great grandparents must have been through. Sons in the war, uncles and cousins in Germany, German culture being suffocated in America… Small wonder German wasn’t allowed out of the house. We lost a lot of wonderful heritage. Thanks for instigating that Hitler, make it smart for everyone involved. Including yourself! I’ve been to where you died. Nice parking lot nowadays. I’ve been to where you sent Jews. Stood where your men shot them. Stood where they fell. Felt the examining table on which ‘medical experiments’ occurred. This was also where an impromptu orchestra met. I could hear the music bouncing off the walls.
I could hear nothing in the basement of that place where the bodies were stacked.
Stacked.
You don’t STACK people.
Wasn’t duplo in Germany by then? Sheesh.
I digress.
I must say, even if writing makes me lose a bit of the sincerity that words spoken to the air or to a mirror can contain, I can at the very least retrace my steps.
Or at least the ones that surface.
Books that force me to cry can be wonderful. They make me angry and sad all at once, and then tears. Not a lot. But enough to make up for the myriad of times in which I have avoided crying.
From that bomb of a 65 I received on my unfinished theory test (I HAVE NEVER RECEIVED THAT BAD OF A GRADE IN MY ENTIRE LIFE! I GET SICK OVER RECEIVING AN 87!!!!) to when mom told me with much spite that I had given her the worst mothers’ day ever.
I hate spite.
I hate things said out of spite.
While I’m at it, I also hate the horrific blood-trail that
words can leave behind.
The two instances on which mom apologized for her treatment of me…
The first left me dumbstruck. I was also stunned that she knew the kids bullied me at school. She knew? How did she know?!?! Teachers? Did they know? Did I show it? Or does the absence of friends make it that apparent?
Words put me down, then they kept me sane. I read. And read. And read. Books and constellations for friends, I discovered the wonderful fact that once you read… your entire world becomes narrative.
…Lindsay, just don’t allow your dreams to remain narrative. Even the ones deep inside that you are too embarrassed to speak aloud.
and speaking of words, where are you going to put these now? Now that your blog has been followed by some random guy you have seen a handful of times in passing and never spoken to finding the link on Facebook and trying to court you?
Someone you barely know reading the words that come tumbling out of your mind is one thing.
‘Awkward Courtship Guy’ as friends and I have guiltily dubbed him, finding the words, noting you as a woman of ‘uncommon quality,’ randomly asking if there are any fine arts events you can attend, you stupidly saying sure because you're nice, then realizing what he’s after when he asks you out to the park, you saying no, the letter he sent, him talking to your mom, did I mention I don’t know this guy?
And then a letter with her name in poor cursive to be left in my mailbox?
And then just showing up at my musical?
After reading all of this?!?!?!
HA!
Between the lines. Between the lines.
Then again, I suppose only I can understand the context.
Note to readers if there are any (because apparently there were even when I thought I knew all five of them:) Don’t start to fall in love with me. Don’t try to court me (like the last serious blog reader. Dude. I barely knew you. Met you three times.) This is nice but know me in person first. And also, I’m not as intimidating as I may seem. Or maybe I am. Depends on the person you are. And know that I don’t go places with guys I barely know that are interested in me that I am not interested in at ALL. Can anyone say ‘AWKWARD’ ?!
Reasons I should never show this to anyone, even a significant other if there ever is one:
+I can be very very dark. Not in demeanor, but when you follow the embers a fire gives off, who can tell where they will lead?
+…assumptions.
+I, as everyone, have been messed up by life and sewn together by perspective.
+…assumptions.
+other things I do not possess the ability to verbalize… too much murky thought swirling about. I’m not even sure which end of the iceberg is the tip.
+and also, assumptions. People cannot seem to read thoughts and see them as open ended structures. They read therefore they know. No, no, no. This is not a factual book that I am writing. The characters are not ones of which I have carefully mulled over for weeks, I am real with real thought. Yes characters can be wildly life like. Very much alive. Incredibly real. But they do not possess in of themselves the whirling globe of multi-layered atmosphere that is the human mind.
When I say something, it is a summation of many things. Not always, I’m not always a philosopher making comments about life in an off handed way. (Nor am I a stupid kid in the corner that needs deep things spelled out to her. Keep your kiddy pools folks. You need them more than I.) SO DON’T ASSUME THAT EVERYTHING I SAY IS SET IN STONE! I ramble. I stumble. I try to pull just one cloud out of that atmosphere, spin it out like thread, hold the tangled mess in my hand, and present it to whoever asked for it.
…many many times no one cares or had asked for it.
But they look at the jumbled mess and don’t realize that it’s not the full thought. That there are several meanings to it. That they may have not understood.
Funny thing understanding.
I often feel badly when I say that I understand. That I know what someone is talking about.
…because people confuse this with empathy.
Just because I can comprehend it does not mean that I am saying I have been there too.
It’s saying that I am burdened with far more perspectives than any one person should have, and that if your problem was from point A to point B, and from C to D, that I can clearly see where it intersected.
I have rambled enough tonight. What did I start to say upon coming here?
Ah yes.
And one final thing:
I thought the other day that I would never require writing for some time.
Funny, I didn’t realize it wasn’t sadness, anger, or frustration that caused me to spill.
It’s reading.
The two instances on which mom apologized for her treatment of me…
The first left me dumbstruck. I was also stunned that she knew the kids bullied me at school. She knew? How did she know?!?! Teachers? Did they know? Did I show it? Or does the absence of friends make it that apparent?
Words put me down, then they kept me sane. I read. And read. And read. Books and constellations for friends, I discovered the wonderful fact that once you read… your entire world becomes narrative.
…Lindsay, just don’t allow your dreams to remain narrative. Even the ones deep inside that you are too embarrassed to speak aloud.
and speaking of words, where are you going to put these now? Now that your blog has been followed by some random guy you have seen a handful of times in passing and never spoken to finding the link on Facebook and trying to court you?
Someone you barely know reading the words that come tumbling out of your mind is one thing.
‘Awkward Courtship Guy’ as friends and I have guiltily dubbed him, finding the words, noting you as a woman of ‘uncommon quality,’ randomly asking if there are any fine arts events you can attend, you stupidly saying sure because you're nice, then realizing what he’s after when he asks you out to the park, you saying no, the letter he sent, him talking to your mom, did I mention I don’t know this guy?
And then a letter with her name in poor cursive to be left in my mailbox?
And then just showing up at my musical?
After reading all of this?!?!?!
HA!
Between the lines. Between the lines.
Then again, I suppose only I can understand the context.
Note to readers if there are any (because apparently there were even when I thought I knew all five of them:) Don’t start to fall in love with me. Don’t try to court me (like the last serious blog reader. Dude. I barely knew you. Met you three times.) This is nice but know me in person first. And also, I’m not as intimidating as I may seem. Or maybe I am. Depends on the person you are. And know that I don’t go places with guys I barely know that are interested in me that I am not interested in at ALL. Can anyone say ‘AWKWARD’ ?!
Reasons I should never show this to anyone, even a significant other if there ever is one:
+I can be very very dark. Not in demeanor, but when you follow the embers a fire gives off, who can tell where they will lead?
+…assumptions.
+I, as everyone, have been messed up by life and sewn together by perspective.
+…assumptions.
+other things I do not possess the ability to verbalize… too much murky thought swirling about. I’m not even sure which end of the iceberg is the tip.
+and also, assumptions. People cannot seem to read thoughts and see them as open ended structures. They read therefore they know. No, no, no. This is not a factual book that I am writing. The characters are not ones of which I have carefully mulled over for weeks, I am real with real thought. Yes characters can be wildly life like. Very much alive. Incredibly real. But they do not possess in of themselves the whirling globe of multi-layered atmosphere that is the human mind.
When I say something, it is a summation of many things. Not always, I’m not always a philosopher making comments about life in an off handed way. (Nor am I a stupid kid in the corner that needs deep things spelled out to her. Keep your kiddy pools folks. You need them more than I.) SO DON’T ASSUME THAT EVERYTHING I SAY IS SET IN STONE! I ramble. I stumble. I try to pull just one cloud out of that atmosphere, spin it out like thread, hold the tangled mess in my hand, and present it to whoever asked for it.
…many many times no one cares or had asked for it.
But they look at the jumbled mess and don’t realize that it’s not the full thought. That there are several meanings to it. That they may have not understood.
Funny thing understanding.
I often feel badly when I say that I understand. That I know what someone is talking about.
…because people confuse this with empathy.
Just because I can comprehend it does not mean that I am saying I have been there too.
It’s saying that I am burdened with far more perspectives than any one person should have, and that if your problem was from point A to point B, and from C to D, that I can clearly see where it intersected.
I have rambled enough tonight. What did I start to say upon coming here?
Ah yes.
And one final thing:
I thought the other day that I would never require writing for some time.
Funny, I didn’t realize it wasn’t sadness, anger, or frustration that caused me to spill.
It’s reading.
One last reason this should never be shown to anyone:
If you know me, these thoughts need to be realized.
If you read them you may not understand.
You may assume.
And all of my spoken words, assumed or not, will just be that emptier.
Even after all of this, I have experienced that you will still not treat my fumble with words as that.
And I dislike being walked over.
If I’m comfortable enough to say them to you, or for you to glean out of conversation…
Well, there you go.
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