Sandra Scofield’s narratives are products of linguistic features that allow the interpretation of social constructions. Her works display continuity in contemplation of societal settings and expectations through processes of discovery within processes of…
I have stopped considering myself as a writer. It seems like it’s been a long time, but really maybe only a year. I hate envying others. I hate granting them their positive face by wanting what they want, what they have already obtained. But I do. I haven’t found my thing. I don’t write naked or lying down or while eating an apple or exclusively with pen and paper. I haven’t felt bouts of expressive energy that manifest some number of works that truly display the innermost of my creative intellect. I don’t have an internship or a job or a publication outside of my University.
I am too lazy to be a writer. I have not felt productive. What could I create by myself that is so amazing that the world will appreciate and fund? Really, what can I say that couldn’t be said more eloquently, imaginatively, poetically, linguistically effective by someone more qualified? Why have I chosen a career path that relies on the exposure and wide acceptance of my most intimate existence? I have not worked hard. I feel like I don’t know enough. About the Spanish War or stomata cells or stellar astronomy- fuck, I tried to take Astronomy every semester- or Pablo Neruda or Latin. I feel like I’m not ready to go out and make a life with only the things that I do know.
And I’m usually prompted to say “But, maybe” because my dilemmas are cliché and my troubles are trite, comparatively. And I know that it’s customary to be afraid to embark on a new life development, but shit. I’ve spent 5 years, the most prominent years of my life so far, just shoving information into my brain and throwing it up and putting it back in and throwing it up again to be judged and stamped with a letter grade in 4 month cycles. That’s a weird transition into adulthood, and I’m still just as unsure of the future as I was when I was 18.
Granted, and I do clearly, recognize the advantages of continuing education. Simply because, really, smart people make good decisions about the world I live in. And I am a different person with an undergraduate education. I have absolutely reveled in the knowledge of the history of the Italian Renaissance, poetic symbology, developmental psychology, John Cage. I have never cherished anything like what I have gained in college. I hold myself and everything around me to a certain standard, it seems, after knowing the things I do. I am observant and lucid and analytical. I am appreciative.
BUT, MAYBE there isn’t always supposed to be a resolution at the end of the Tumblr post. I could just continue to be afraid and procrastinate and convince myself that being scared of something is just a personal revolution. And weathering it means betterment.
My new pizza sweater because whatever Thanksgiving
Do you guys know what my dog looks like?
This is actually very beautiful- I should remember this.
Oh, hello self esteem. It seems I found you again.
Everyone should take the time to look at, read, and think about this
If there is one thing that everybody should really read and take into consideration, it’s this.Too many people forget this
This is very powerful
"They were gunning the motorcycles. There were these little backfires. There was one noise like that. I thought it was a backfire. Then next I saw Connally grabbing his arms and saying “no, no, no, no, no,” with his fist beating. Then Jack turned and I turned. All I remember was a blue-gray building up ahead. Then Jack turned back so neatly, his last expression was so neat… you know that wonderful expression he had when they’d ask him a question about one of the ten million pieces they have in a rocket, just before he’d answer. He looked puzzled, then he slumped forward. He was holding out his hand … I could see a piece of his skull coming off. It was flesh-colored, not white — he was holding out his hand … I can see this perfectly clean piece detaching itself from his head. Then he slumped in my lap, his blood and his brains were in my lap … Then Clint Hill [the Secret Service man], he loved us, he made my life so easy, he was the first man in the car … We all lay down in the car … And I kept saying, Jack, Jack, Jack, and someone was yelling “he’s dead, he’s dead.” All the ride to the hospital I kept bending over him, saying “Jack, Jack, can you hear me, I love you, Jack.”
His head was so beautiful. I tried to hold the top of his head down, maybe I could keep it in… but I knew he was dead.”
- Jacqueline Kennedy, November 29, 1963
Crying at my desk now, don’t mind me…