Hatterass Thoughts

The wind is blowing so hard!

I bet if I jumped off the top balcony I'd get caught all up in the blowing, and I'd get carried right away.

Over the ocean.

I'd soar over the Diamond Shoals,

Through the snow whipping through the air,

and out, out, out to sea...

And then, once I was far enough out, the wind would quiet down,

still...

Then!

Down I would crash!

Plummeting.

And I would splash into the sea

at the deepest point between America and Europe,

where the ugliest fish and the biggest whales live.

And I would float,

and float

and

float

until

eventually,

the salt water would soak into my skin,

and my skin would take on so much water

that I would turn into a sea thing.

Yes, a sea thing.

And I would live my life happily, eploring all manner of things under the ocean's surface.

Never wanting for anything but love.

And bread

And coffee...

For love would remain a sweet, warm memory in my mind.

Someting lost in the midst of all the new.

Faces swept away by the wind.

And with the sea water surrounding me

licking my whole entire body,

I would close my eyes and think.

"If not for bread, coffee, and love, I would be quite happy with my life here in the sea."

And then, having quite decided there what I must do,

I would set out on a journey

to search the whole sea

for adventure

and love.

Underground

2 summers ago I started writing my own version of Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground.  It was an interesting exercise.  It turned into a weird stream of conciseness or something very like it.  Anyway, this is "chapter 5"...

Chapter Five

I took a walk with myself tonight.  I often walk at night.  Sometimes with my siblings; sometimes with myself—never alone.  I needed time to be quiet and think, to mentally digest all the thoughts whizzing through my head.  People often need a time to get away--away from the bustle of life—time to spend with themselves.  What am I thinking about today?  Listen.  Be still.  Paying attention to the thoughts swelling and surging inside me.  Brain waves—rapid fire!—shoot through my  mind.  Ting ‘a’ ling zhingk zhank zhow!  Fast thoughts.  Oops…they’re gone.  What is left?  Whispers.  Why can I not remember?  It’s too late.

We all need time to reflect.  How will we ever know ourselves, ever understand our own ideas and thoughts and beliefs, if we do not take the time to get acquainted with ourselves?  Life progresses at a dizzying speed—never stopping, never even slowing.  A minute creeps by.  It’s gone forever.  Fast.  We get caught up in the business of life; it becomes pandemonium, chaos.  Stillness.  This is what I crave.  Quiet.  This is what I need.  I need to hear myself think.  I need to feel myself connect—connect with the still waters that supposedly run deep within.  How do I reach those waters?  How do I ever find the time to slow down?  Who knows.  Sigh.  (You’re bored now, I know it.  You’re thinking, who cares about all this?  Shuttup, girl!)  Well, I’m just thinking.  Introspection is a good thing.  We all need some time for it.  Get to know yourself.  Don’t settle for just getting by.  Delve.  Reach the waters.

I took a walk tonight.  Thoughts flit through my head.  A constant stream of phrases representing vague thoughts flash across my frontal lobe.  Watch out!  My ipod plays classical music.  No words.  Just me thinking.  I am taking a walk with myself.  Hi, I’m Grace.  Remember me?  I haven’t had much time for you lately.  I’ve been busy.  What is going on, on the inside…inside my brain?  What have I been too busy to see?  Words rush, ideas crash.  I’m forgetting them already.  It’s a jungle in here!  I must weed through it.  I need quiet.  Hush, brain!  I live in a land of headaches.  It cramps my head.  I squint.  I breath deep.  Flick the clove to the concrete and start a fire.  A concrete fire in my brain.  I’m clearing it out.  Where does that leave me now?  Tired.

2:48am

I hate this stupid research paper...

old stuff

I'm feeling very deflated tonight.  This weekend has been a trip.  So I'm revisiting old stuff.  Here's something I wrote for class in high school.  It's an imitation of an excerpt from Ulysses, by James Joyce.

Imitation of Ulysses by James Joyce

   In a steady drizzle the rain drops fall, washing away, puddling, muddling. Mulch in the flowerbeds will be swept away. Maybe; hopefully not. Time will tell. Rainfall sings, listen: flsh, fsss, mmmhh plsh. Light water fall through clouds, ethereal mists, trees. On the roof it raps: rat ‘a’ plat tat: guzzling in gutters. Now soft; now hard. If falls purring frizzle, silver veil sizzle, constant dreamy drizzle.
   Under the refreshing cloudburst the floaty green trees sway lazily and drop precious little leaves, like kisses, to the ground, in splish-splashing drops dancing like light-stepping fairies. Day after day, spring showers come and go: leaving the earth soft, misty, sweet. Earth is refreshed: and, with water tickling through its veins, it breaths life into its inhabitants. I feel it, stirring in creation: thriving, oh yes, exalting in the coming of spring.

untitled ramblings of hurt

Her love crowned her like a shroud
as it fell from her breast
to her feet.
crushed.
A mockery
of all her work,
of all her tenderness,
of all her hopes.
Laughing.

Ah! the heart!

Ah, how do we handle our hearts?  I can't deal with it.  It's breaking into pieces.  Crunching.  Grinding.  My soul clenches.  What do I do?  I can't control my eyes.  Tears.  Sobs.  Struggling to choke them back.  Oh to be loved.  To feel the warming security of being loved.  To rejoice in the fact that no matter what, the one you love loves you.  How sickening the "I love you"'s that fall flat.  Deflated.  Devoid of ardency.  I long.  I want so badly.  I cry.  Why won't it just work out?  Why!  Please, something greater and beyond me explain!  I'm crawling.  My pride has been ripped from me one tear, one "I'm sorry," one "I love you" at a time.  Am I not good enough, not close enough the the mental picture of ideal?  Am I a bad person?  Selfish?  The questions kill.  Prying.  Lying.  Squeezing the brain and suffocating.  It's happening again.  Things are slipping.  Falling.  Crashing to the ground around me.  How do I hold on?  How do I keep this I care so much for from ripping my heart out and leaving me alone?  Running.  Praying.  Hoping so hard for what might.  But this is what we go through to make it work.  This is what love is.  The deeper your suffering cuts into you, the deeper the roots of your love will reach.  No wonder I jump into love so whole-heartedly.

Wishes of a mind lost at sea

     I wish I were on a boat right now.  A boat lost at sea.  Drifting along a northbound current.  I would run my hands through the water as jellyfish float along and mermaids skim by, darting under my boat and criss-crossing through the water.  Pelicans would fly to me and bring news of my friends--glass bottles containing precious letters held safely inside their stretchy beaks.  I would catch flashy tropical fish for lunch and dinner.  Breakfast would be biscuits from the store of food I brought with me for the journey.  It's a never-ending supply of biscuits--which can get old after a while, actually.  I would made coffee for myself.  Stiff, dark, bitter coffee.  I love it.  The sea air would wrinkle my skin and bleach my hair, but I wouldn't care.  No one would ever see me again.  Until I found an island.  My island.  There I would find my true home.  Someone will be waiting for me there.  We'll be happy.  Together.  We'll start a life.  It'll be good.  But this is all wishes on a day when my mind is lost at sea.

     Sometimes I wonder what I lost.  Sometimes I wonder why I'm so emotional.  I don't understand it.  I wish I wasn't.  Yet I like it.  I makes me feel alive.  But I feel so weird and vulnerable.  Sometimes I wonder if it weren't for all the stupid mistakes I've made what sort of person would I be.  Better?  Yes, probably.  I'm sure I would.

wishes

     I wish I had a guitar playing dinosaur that would follow me around all day and keep me company. He would wear a blue striped t-shirt and blue jeans cuffed at his scaly ankles. I would feed him french fries and raw meat at meal times, and he would sleep on the floor in my room. His name would be Ichabod. Yes, I wish I had a guitar playing dinosaur.

*clears throat* Ahem.

*written to a stacato piano chord beat*

It's a very sad thing to be stuck on the sunny side of lane by yourself eating an ice cream sundae that you absolutely cannot enjoy because not only are you lactose intolerant...but you're just not in the mood.  I'm jealous.

It's a very aggravating thing to walk into lane and not find anything for yourself to eat except another day another bagel (which for some reason tastes like onion...even though it's cinnimon...)  I'm jealous.

It's very pathetic to be blogging in a race against the time it takes your computer to die because you aren't anywhere near an outlet and you have no hope of finding one.  I'm jealous.

It's a very silly thing to be surrounded on both sides by tables full of laughing, chatting people as you look longingly at ice cream you can't eat and count down the hours until Into the Woods gets out.  I'm jealous.

It's a very stupid thing to be secretly jealous of an inanimate object that steals so many of your friends every night for a week and leaves you by yourself on the sunny side of lane with ice cream you can't eat.  I'm jealous.

My computer died.

An Imaginary Story: still continued

     So a few extra people were hired at the place where I work.  This means I get one day off a week.  The day is subject to change, of course, but still--one day is good.  This day--whichever day of the week it happens to be--has become my "open door" day.  Well, "open door" morning, rather.  I don't spend my only free day walled up in my apartment.  At least not every free day--I do love to take rambles about town or go to the markets.

     I've become braver as I grow accustomed to the openness and vulnerability that follows from such open doored living.  My wardrobe has become more varied and interesting, depending on my moods.  My cooking more enticing and delectable.  I mean, after all--I don't want my neighbour smelling eggs week after week....  It's led me to discover new musical tastes.  It has been a very interesting experience.

     And he and I have become better acquainted.  We have grown from friendly nods and waves to short hellos and small bits of conversation.  Last week I asked him what he was reading.  I thought about the idea of asking him a question for a while.  Mulled the idea over in my head.  Decided no.  Maybe sometime.  Not now.  Later.  (It's always later with me.)  But the words sprang out anyway.  They felt awkward in my throat.  Bubbling up.  Uncontrolled.  Some deep seated, subconscious something had flung the words from my stomach.  And as the words tumbled from my mouth, I thought to myself how very brave I'd grown.  But at the same time, I panicked.  Why!  Why am I set on mortifying myself like this!  However, to my surprise, the question didn't sound awkward.  It was friendly.  Not at all how I had expected myself to sound saying anything more than polite niceties.  I thought I would sound big and all full of corners.  The voice unwelcome in the sound of the music entwined between our two hovels.  But it didn't.  It sounded pleasant.  My voice wasn't square, but more like a wave.  And as I sounded forth my question, which had fought its way out of me so valiantly, I was pleased.  And he has such a pleasant voice.  Not  soft or anything.  But pleasant. Warm.  Kind of raspy, but not gravely.  Undeniable a man's voice--but not pretentious.  I like it.  He's a very appealing man.  I don't really remember what he answered.  I was too caught up in my small accomplishment.  So I smiled at his voice as he answered.  And as I grew red, realizing I had no idea what he said, just turned around, hoping I didn't seem too ditzy or rude.

Dionysus

     I want to do something impulsive.  I want to tear down the columns and go crazy.  I'm tired of putzing.  Tired of fuddy.  Tired of going to bed and getting back up again.  Tired of this pokey old whatever.  I find myself wanting the "good ol' days."  Hankering for carousing.  Or something.  Carousing isn't the right word...  But I want excitement.  I want something to happen.  I want to be young and live out my youth to the fullest.  Why am I not "sowing my wild oats"?  Why aren't I enjoying my youth?  Why am I just a duddery old pudge of day in and day out same old nothing.  I want to delve the depths of my youth.  I might make mistakes--but I want to make them.  I want to flop.  I want to jump of the cliff.  I want to do something.  My life has become a predictable cycle.  I need change.  I need to run for a while.  I don't care if I commit some stereotypical youthful mistake.  Maybe I'll regret it later.  But maybe I won't.  Maybe I'll see it as youth lived out to it's fullest.  I mean, I wasn't a saint before, but I don't have regrets, necessarily.

     But in the end, it all comes down to the fact that I have no idea what I want.  Two sides war within me.  One longing to fulfill my youthful, hedonist desires; the other to become more than this.  This is the Dionysus within.

I am not Ben Morrow. This is a problem.

No one actually reads this blog.  But ya know, that's alright.  I'm a pretty spotty poster anyway.  This thing is more just for my own amusement.  It's a nice thing to have when you want to be creative and secretly hope other people are reading what you write and finding you witty.

But as I was saying: I'm not Ben Morrow.  Not matter how much I wish I was, I am not.  This is my lot in life.  And so I have no idea what I'm doing with the lighting for Into the Woods.  Dear Jesus, please help me.  Seriously.

But life is good.  I'm drowning, but also, I'm putting in my 2 weeks notice tomorrow at work.  I'm so excited.  I can't wait.  Life is exciting now.  There's something driving me, propelling me forward.  I'll have to work hard.

The weather is changing.  It's so wonderful.

Oh life.

Once upon a time: A Eulogy

Once upon a time, before I was dating Ryan, I lent him my favorite book of poetry.  I wasn't trying to capture his attention or flirt--just being friendly and nice.  The book was well worn.  It had traveled with me on many subways, hikes, trains, airplanes, and helped keep me occupied throughout long, boring classes.  Writing overflowed the margins--hasty, cramped writing signifying certain eras in my life.  All my favorite lines were underlined--favorite excerpts bracketed in with scratchy pencil.  I had developed a highly sophisticated method of dog-earing pages, so as to remember where my favorite poems were located.  Other than my copy of The Brothers Karamazov (which Ryan is not allowed to borrow), this small book of poetry was my favorite.  It was a character to me.  It was familiar.  Comforting.  But Ryan lost it.  When he broke the news to me, I thought it was a bad joke.  It took a while for the nauseating realization to sink in.  He was serious. (He told me after we started dating.)  I'll be honest, I almost cried.  And honestly, I still could cry over that book.  My chest hurt.  I took a deep breath.  My head.  I didn't want to make him feel bad, though, so I told him it wasn't a big deal and bit my lower lip.  I felt like I'd lost a pet...someone had lost my pet and couldn't find the poor thing.  I don't think I've ever really gotten over the loss of that book.  It's weird.  I have no idea why I was so attached to it...still am attached to it, though.  Maybe it's because little bits of me were engraved on every page.  My life story told through poetry and scrawling margin notes.  But I miss my book tonight.  I'd love to turn it's brown, soft pages, find my favorite poems, and start reading.  But I can't.  So here I am, writing a eulogy for a book of poems.

From the white tent: an imaginary continuation of a story

     Today is Saturday.  I don't have work, so I finally got to sleep in.  It felt so good.  When at last I woke around 11, I plugged in my ipod and turned The Avett Brothers up loud.  The noise filled my apartment.  It filled the cracks in the room--it got under the armchair and the sofa, down the drain, and in the light fixtures--everywhere.  It reached down into me; I felt myself swelling up like a balloon as the music filled me up and pushed my ribs out as if to burst.  It was quite a feeling.  I washed my hair in the sink and toweled it off, dripping water all over.  Tiny little droplets of water blitzing through the air, plummeting to the earth, and smashing to wood flooring.  What to wear.  On my days off, this question is the supreme question on my mind.  And today most of all.  Today, I'm going to open my door.  I'm going to follow his lead and open the door--the gaping entrance to the outside world.  It's so vulnerable.

     I decide to go with the blue striped dress.  It accentuates my shoulders and is just the right length to show off my legs up til they start to get jiggly.  After carefully--more carefully than normal--applying makeup to my face, I walk to the door.  It's an odd feeling of expectation.  My socks slide across the floor--snagging a bit on the wooden floor--as I get closer and closer.  One more thing.  I back track quickly and bump up the volume on my ipod.  Go big or go home.  I set the song.  Still the Avett Brother.  Laundry Room.  Soothing.  Just right for opening the door.  The door.  I walk forward.  The guitar steps in anticipation; the voices on the ipod like friends.  The doorknob.  With a rush, I turn the doorknob, jerk my arm, and open the door wide.  Directly across from me is the gaping hole into the man's room.  So it's around 11 that he opens his door, I guess...

     The sound of the door opening draws his attention, and there we are.  Suspended in time.  He smiles at me.  I smile and shove the triangle wedge of wood under the door.  The door is open.  The guitar on my ipod picks up.  It's excited for me.  The Fiddle.  It's as if my ipod and  the song have been waiting for this.  I smile at the man and turn around and walk back farther into my apartment.  It felt less lonely now.  I was a part of something.  It was breakfast time.

     I wish I had an elephant.  Like seriously.  I would ride him--my dear Mr. Elephant--to and from classes.  I would never be late.  Jeff wouldn't hate me so much...

      Anyway, yes, an elephant would make my life so much better.  He would be my little pet.  But big.  I would give him a grand name to reflect his magnificent nature.  Like Edward the Second, Petrov the Innocent, or Harrison Ford.  As he stomped and crashed across campus from Fulton to Barrington, I would sit atop him like a queen--or at least like a very indie person.  I would be the hipster of hipsters.  Yes, I need to get an elephant.

     I think I would also like a pack of dogs.  Dogs of all kinds.  They would band all together and run wildly after  Harrison Ford the Innocent as we trekked across Gordon.  They would sleep in the woods with Petrov Ford at night.  And we would all be so happy.

     I wish I was in the band Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros.  We would tour around on elephants with packs and packs of wild dogs chasing madly after us.  It would be brilliant....

I'm leaving to the ice land.

     I'm in Lane right now not writing a paper--which is what I should be doing.  Directly across from me is the cape girl.  I didn't think she was at Gordon anymore.  Apparently I was wrong.  She isn't currently wearing a cape--sadly.  However, it is undoubtedly her.  I would recognize that cape girl anywhere.  Right now she's talking about Lady Gaga and anime with the girl who controls the card swiping action at for the Lane dinner shift.  I think she wants to make a Yu-Gi-Oh music video for one of Gaga's songs.  Beautiful.  Absolutely wonderful.

     My best friend and I are moving.  It's official.  I hope you will not miss me too much.  We're going far away to one of those islands at the top of Canada--the under-appreciated ones no one ever talks about.  We're going to build an igloo, and we'll live happily ice fishing until we die.  He is going to slay a polar bear for me, cause I need the fur to make a coat--I'm always cold.  I'm going to grow a garden on our ice island.  We're going to be counts--well, count and countess--the only residents with a wonderful greenhouse and furs for our outfits and blankets.  He says our igloo would only look like a regular igloos, however in reality it would be just like the houses on Tatooene with the underground rooms and everything.  He says it will be the only igloo with sun panel electricity and hydrogen gas generator plumbing.  Our bedroom has heated floors.  And the small kitchen has a rice steamer (cause I love rice) and a walk in "freezer" that is actually just a non sealed off room in the ice held together with steel.  The house also has satellite radio, internet, tv, and phone service.  Thank goodness for the radio.  He and I love Miike Snow.  (Which is ironic in light of where we'll be living.)  I will be painting the walls of our ice house.  One wall will have a painting of the ocean on it.  A beautiful, swelling ocean with seagulls flying overhead and huge, billowing clouds in the sky.  Another wall will have mountains and a forest painted on it.  Green, cliffy mountains covered in mysterious dark pines.  Other walls will retain the crisp, cool translucent color of Canadian ice.  The painted walls will remind us of home: the ice ones of our new life.  But we will be happy.  Happy as clams in our little igloo on the ice island.  We will miss our friends.  But once a week, they will all sail up in a rowboat to see us.  We will host igloo parties. We'll all go swimming in the cold, Canadian ocean.  And at night we will all drink hot chocolate before all snuggling down in a pile of polar bear fur blankets spread out on the floor of the living room with  the painted walls.  In the morning, when we all wake, I make tons of chocolate chip pancakes before packing them all up and sending them off back home in the rowboat sail boat.  And so we will never be lonely.  It will be a happy time.

The Honeycomb Triumvirate has nothing to do with this post...neither do mormons in Japan.

     Have you ever thought what band you would be?  What I mean is, what band or bands have the same sound and essence your soul does.  For example, I think I would be either Beirut or the Shins.  Well, a mix of the two really.  If I were a song, I'd be a mix of Home, by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros and Elephant Gun, by Beirut.  Whenever I listen to these songs, I feel a connection.  The spirit of the song has the same jive as my spirit does.  We're groovy, if I dare say.  What song would you be?  What song would your friends be?  We all know unmistakably Enya people--those quirky, weird, bumbling ones.  Or people who are Andrew Bird to the very core of their being--those beautiful people we all long to be.  And their's everyone in between--Ringo Starrs, Ke$has, Bruce Springsteens, Belle & Sebastians, Quiet Riots, or Ingrid Michaelsons.... 

      I forgot a cardigan.  Just thought you should know.  I'm currently chilly in Chesters.  I need my cardigan.   And here you see a perfect example of "digression."  Anyway...

     What is the one thing you really want?  The one thing that above anything else you crave with all of your being?  I don't mean like, a new iphone or a cruise vacation.  Unless that actually is what you want...which is shallow.  I doubt anyone would ever say above all they longed for a new Honda Civic.  So moving on.  What do we as humans long for?  I think we all desire different things.  Some people want freedom from the past or from themselves; some people want to trust someone else; some want a friendship that lasts forever; some people want purpose.  I, I want love.  I want to be deeply loved by someone.  Or by people.  This seems pathetic maybe, but seriously.  I've always longed for that.  I would die if I didn't have it.  Well, that's a bit drastic: I'd be very depressed.  What do you want most of all?

From the white tent: an imaginary story

     There is a man who lives in the flat across from me.  He's the only other American in the building that I know of. So I feel a sort of connection with him.  It's like we're brothers or something.

     Every morning when I leave for work, I open my door and there's his door across from me--a green enigma.  Closed.  I assume he's sleeping soundly, unaware of my coming and going.  But when I come back to the flat at night, as I climb the stairs, music drifts through the air to greet me.  Sometimes it's Simon & Garfunkel, sometimes Chopin, other times the Kinks, Mel Torme, or the Shins.  But most often it's the Rolling Stones.  As I walk down the hall to my door, I prepare myself for my one chance to spot him.  His door is always open in the evenings.  It's a beautiful thing.  A soft yellow glow spills out into the hallway.  His flat doesn't smell like a college dorm--no tang of stale clothes or burnt food.  It's just a warm essence that spills out the open door.  As I reach my door, I steal a glance to the left and into his abode.

     On the wall opposite the door there's a large mirror, so I have a pretty good view of the whole room.  It's filled with lamps.  He must never use the awful ceiling lights, I guess.  Artwork and posters are scattered on the walls.  There's an old couch with a questionable pattern--but not ugly.  It fits.  The coffee table in the middle of the room is overflowing with papers and books--I want so badly to know what books he reads.  On an small side table, rests a record player and the source of music.  And next to that, in a comfy looking maroon arm chair, sits the man.  He's reading a book--always is.  Tonight he's wearing a grey t-shirt and hunter green pants.  Barefoot.  He has shaggy brown hair.  It's not dirty or gross, but clean and inviting.  A bit of a beard frames his face.  Brown, square glasses.  From what I can tell, he's not overly attractive, but not ugly.  Just a man.

     When I arrive at my door and start digging around in my purse for my keys, he looks up at me, smiles, and nods.  I always wave distractedly as I find my keys in my coat pocket and say goodnight as I walk into my own, empty flat.

The Second

It's funny how we all rush into the Second.  It is almost as big of a deal as the First.  It's not until the Third that the anticipation and excitement dim a wee bit.  So this is the Second.  It's funny how life can become overwhelming all at once.  It lulls you into a sense of security, then flips out on you, causing a major mental upset.  You think you're finally on top of things; you've finally got it together and things are going smoothly.  But that's not true.  I have a feeling Chris Garneau would understand what I mean.  My song for today is Island Song.

I'm feeling the need to change.  I'm very influenced by the seasons and the weather.  And it's changing time.  I want to reinvent myself.  I decided to grow out my hair.  I did a few days ago.  And I'm determined this time.  It will be long.  I want to quit my job.  I want to revitalize myself.  Get some allergy medicine.  Get healthy.  Change my state of mind.  No more insecurity.  I'm a valuable, hardworking person.  There's no need for me to be intimidated by others.  I can do this...I think.

I feel it's time for a change.  I read on a website that ENFPs often feel this need.  They are everchanging.  It says," An ENFP needs to feel that they are living their lives as their true Self, walking in step with what they believe is right. They see meaning in everything, and are on a continuous quest to adapt their lives and values to achieve inner peace. They're constantly aware and somewhat fearful of losing touch with themselves. Since emotional excitement is usually an important part of the ENFP's life, and because they are focused on keeping 'centered', the ENFP is usually an intense individual, with highly evolved values."  So maybe I'm just feeling the need to "center myself" or something.  But something needs to happen.  I'm caught in limbo.

I feel change coming.  I have to make something different in my life.  I need to do some rearranging and as the new season comes, so a new season is coming for me perhaps.  The change in season is all around me.  Right now, in my Chester's booth, a crisp, cool breeze is blowing through the window and freezing my fingers as I type.  It smells like fall.  Change is here.

The First

The First is always exciting.  That's because you don't know what is to come in the future.  The First date is the one where you hold your breath in anxious anticipation as the butterflies threaten to revolt.  The First rollercoaster is the one that feels like you're going to die as the wind peals the skin from your face; you fear your stomach won't keep it together.  The First class you pay attention the entire class as you try and figure out the teacher--how much slacking will they take?  The First...it's addicting.  One must always try things first, must get that first rush.  So I'm trying a blog.  I think it might be fun.