Concerning Hobbits

It has occurred to me on many different occasions that Tolkien's universe had a lot to say about social dynamics and interaction. But nothing strikes me as strongly as his concept of the hobbit, a creature simple in both nature and desire, with a fondness for green growing things and warm hearths. This simplicity is shown in a light of innocence, a delicate naivety secure in its seclusion and quite self-sufficient in its own fairly ascetic needs.

That said, I find myself not only fond of them as a society, but with a certain amount of longing sadness that comes from having lived a life not too unlike that once upon a time.

It's no secret I grew up in a very rural environment. I'm often referred to as "the country girl" in my group of friends, even by myself, an admission to my history as a young sheltered child in a sleepy little cow town where everyone knew everybody. I once knew the entirety of my hometown's layout, able to navigate to almost anywhere without need for directions, simply by virtue of landmarks of people's stores, homes, and hangouts. The population was small enough to fit into the campus where I ended up going to college. And despite my years away from my hometown, and the yawning swaths of knowledge and experience previously hidden from me because I lived in such a sheltered environment, I miss certain aspects of it that simply cannot exist there for me any longer.

My hometown changed irrevocably during my formidable years. A rather severe and eerie series of murders, accidents, and suicides left sizable holes in my classrooms and classmates. It is terrible and unfortunate beyond words when a parent buries their child: I saw it happen not one, but three separate times, the last of which was one mother alone burying all four of her babies. The community I once knew as whole and supportive shattered and divided over a scandal concerning a local priest of the most populated church involved in the city's agendas. It went from being a place where I was unafraid to play unattended in my front yard to a place I feared driving to school. Predators moved into the innocent spaces of my life and - for as well-protected as my parents kept me - I could not avoid seeing the aftermath of their passing. When classmates faces made the local news (based out of a city an hour and a half away), I knew they would not be in school anymore, either by death or by jail. More than once councilors came to our school to try to mitigate the damage. They, like our parents, did the best they could.

And so, reading the description of the Shire after "Sharky's" management takeover, I can't help but feel a sympathetic pang of loss. Like the hobbits who followed his lead, member of my community became self-serving rats willing to stir up false allegations against others to give themselves any sort of benefit. Like Sharkey himself, many transplants into the community became controlling monsters who bled common citizens dry and demanded unreasonable expectations for the sake of greed. Empty wild places were paved over and torn down to be "civilized" for the sake of development, which led to ruin and run-down empty neighborhoods with vacant windows staring onto feral streets where gangs and drug-dealers lurked. Pristine cookie-cutter homes that covered the once-wild grasses became nests for criminals because of bloated growth and expansion without thought for anything other than money. The rolling green hills and aged oaks were rooted out and ripped up. The air went from clear enough to see Half Dome from a high enough bluff to so choked you couldn't see the next hill. Light pollution veiled the stars. There was talk of paving over the creek, the last untouchably wild space left in the heart of the city... which, for being the only place left untamed, still needed regular purging to rid itself of grocery carts, old tires, and other trash.

I share a kinship with hobbits, with a fondness for green growing things, peace, quiet, and simple pleasures. I, too, enjoy good home-cooked food and good company, with a secure and simple - if quaint - lifestyle. I do not need the biggest new car or the fanciest dress, the fastest computer, the most expansive house or most expensive gadgets. I would prefer flowers to a new cell phone, warm socks to a slinky dress, my practical hybrid to a foreign sports car, and my friends to famous people. I want enough, but not so much that it becomes a lofty prize.

So perhaps it is not so strange that I like them more than the magical ever-living elves, or the valiant and heroic men, or the crafty and indomitable dwarves. Certainly I like them all, and all their parts of the Tolkien universe, and perhaps they are more exciting to read about. But were I to pick one to be, one to live with, it would be a simple choice, in more ways than one.

Let The Plagues Begin

I thought I could get away without getting sick this year. Unfortunately, despite my attempts at getting enough sleep, taking adequate vitamins, and overall promoting healthy and hygienic living, I got sick anyway. Bah. Humbug.

There are many reasons I hate being sick. Oh, I could go on and on. But the worst things are really quite distinct. First and foremost, I always seem to miss out on the coolest things. There was one year I missed out on a crab-and-lobster feast put on by a team of people who had volunteered to be our personal servants for the night, doling out foot massages and waiting on us hand and foot. Wine flowed, laughter echoed... and I was at home in bed with a fever of 103. Or how about the example of my own 16th birthday, where I was stuck with the flu? Even my own 25th birthday, I threw myself a party... and was coming down with something terrible before the night even ended. I got through bowling, but the hot-tubbing afterwards became a real downer because even in the warmest tub, my skin felt achy and I shivered non-stop.

Possibly coming in second-to-worst would be the various discomforts. My least favorite among which are the fire in the back of the throat and hot-lungs sensation, followed by how frigging hypersensitive everything gets. Even my own clothes feel chafing against my skin when I'm sick enough. And then there's the "it hurts to lie here completely still and just try to breathe" fun and games. When just trying to maintain existence becomes painful, it has long since past being funny.

Next on the list is weakness. It becomes a real chore to do something as simple as get out of bed to get a glass of water. I feel exhausted after putting on pants and have to lie back down after a shower. I can't do anything I need to or want to get done, the house becomes a mess because I don't have the energy to make the bed much less fold clothes or pick up clutter, and because I sleep so much due to a lack of energy, my circadian rhythm goes crazy.

So, here I am, doing work from home (and thank goodness I can, or I'd be missing even more than just fun events, but also income), sick as a dog and doing the best I can. Blegh.

Ramblin'

Some days I don't have much to say, but want to talk just the same. Not about anything in particular, with any goals or point to it. Like right now. I'm at work, and should be working. Fortunately for me, I'm getting a better understanding of my new job and what I'm supposed to be doing in it, so it's mostly under control, even if I'm not going full-tilt. So I'm not worried. I've got things handled. They're under control.

But I want to just talk to someone.

I'm not upset, and I don't really need anybody for anything, I'm not emotionally distressed or even all that lonely. Even if this place can be a place of stress and isolation, I'm doing all right.

So, for lack of having someone I can just chat with about nonsense without getting a stern look from my manager, I turn to writing. Nothing big, just a little wandering blurb to distract me from the banality that is the office. The Fair Folk would expire here from the drab atmosphere. Indeed, there is no sense of spirit here. Only drive, boredom, frustration, accomplishment. Even creativity is carefully organized and run through multiple screenings before it's considered acceptable. Sure, people eat, exercise, even rest in the quiet windowless rooms designed for such purposes... this place could be its own arcology for how self-contained it is. Book faires come to us, as do blood drives and charities. We have an entire floor dedicated to food and its consumption, complete with Mongolian Grill and Sushi Bar. There is a gym and several break rooms with vending machines of all kinds, and a cafe to boot. One room even has a hammock. But nobody uses it: they're always to busy to rest or relax. They snarf down candy bars and power bars and drink sodas and latte's and energy drinks. They may ake time to work out, pump iron or jog to keep the body fit... but the spirit has no place here. It's run-run-run until you go home.

So right now, I'm taking a moment to write, and foster that little rebellious creative muse within my soul. Just for a moment. I dare not let her go hungry lest she wither completely. It takes vigilance to guard her from the banality of this place as is.

I'm not saying this place is bad - far from. But perhaps, just once in a while... I'd like to talk to someone.

Crazy Turkeys and the Running That Follows

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. I like many different holidays for many different reasons, but shy of Easter (which moves around too much for my liking) and Christmas (which has usurped my birthdays enough times for me to develop an unhealthy complex toward it), Thanksgiving is one of the biggest and best reasons to gather 'round with loved ones and stuff one's self silly. With tryptophan-laden turkey and garlic mashed potatoes waltzing with stuffing and green-bean casserole inside my happy tummy, to be joined by rowdy champagne and seductive fudge until the guest star pumpkin pie arrives with vanilla ice cream on his arm... a veritable party in my insides to echo the raucous laughter and warm conversations with friends and family alike.

I had a strange undertone to this year's festivities that I didn't much care for. I felt guilty because I couldn't spend the holiday with my parents, who held a Thanksgiving Dinner for themselves alone in their far off northland. No matter how much fun I was having, I couldn't shake the bitter taste in the back of my throat from trying to swallow my regrets that I couldn't be there. I love my parents (which apparently makes me something of a strange breed) and enjoy spending time with them. I miss them and try to visit when I can, but let's face it: my last abode was a 7-hour drive away from them, and I didn't move closer. One might think - based on locale - that I have tried to distance myself as far from my parents as possible, but that would be entirely off course. The simple facts line up in two areas: employment, and climate.

So despite the awesome that was the holiday, a sadness still weighs heavily on me, far outstripping the fudge or pie.

Now, with a sneeze, a blink, and a "bless you", we're heading full-tilt into December, where Christmas looms large and imposingly demanding its annual tithe in the form of a gift list. And it's run-run-run to see people, eat food, go places, get presents, wrap and send boxes... and it becomes a wild goose chase that begins with a turkey.

What happened to my summer?

New!

So, this may feel a little awkward. Like, first-kiss new-driver bad-at-public-speaking awkward. After all, this is my first post on a brand new blog.

It feels kinda... naked.

I mean, up 'till this point I was blogging on MySpace. Which not only ate a great many of my posts, but also required me to continue to log into and participate in MySpace-related stuffs. It felt odd to log in just to blog in a fairly limited place (let's face it, not everyone wants to jump through MySpace hoops to access my silly blog), and not do all the other silly things like update my status or whatnot. Not like anyone I knew was still on MySpace anyway. Well, except one guy. But perhaps like me he clings to it with the vain hopes that other people still visit MySpace, as opposed to joining Facebook or Twitter or godknowswhat is out there now.

So now I have no blog history. No "Previous Posts". No archives. No nothing.

In a sense, it's freeing. A clean slate. A new beginning. A fresh start, with no potentially incriminating melodrama from back before my head cracked open and I became an adult. But on the other hand, it feels odd. I have no idea who I'm talking to. Or is it writing to? Who are you, anyway? Why are you reading my blog? And since I'm typing this out right now, I'm talking to either a future person I don't know, a future person I do know in the present (which, by the time you read this, is the past already), or I'm just talking to myself. Augh! Paradox!

It's head-scratchy time-recursive stuff. Maybe if I think about it too hard, my brain will explode like GIR's in "Bad Rubber Piggy".

So here I am, talking to a future person and myself at the same time via text, eating almond M&M's and wondering what direction this blog will take and how and why. Mostly this is for my own thoughts, I suppose, like an online diary, but at the same time, things I don't wish to share go in my ACTUAL diary. A public diary, then? Sometimes I ask questions and opinions. So perhaps it's more a forum. But no, a forum looks like something else entirely, with members and moderators and threads. No, this is simply a blog, for whatever a blog may be.

And it's mine. Bwahahaha. All shiny and new.

Maybe it's not so awkward after all.