15 April 2011
I went to bed last night with my lecture podcast still playing. Dr. Bautista had expressed his disclaimer for the class for students to take the facts and gather their own conclusions on the drugs, and had moved on to differentiating between drug use and drug abuse. The cough and allergy medicine had started to kick in around 1:30 AM. I figured I might as well make an attempt to study a bit more while I was falling asleep. A collective of ideas for my paper topic were still swarming in my head.
The lecture was for my drugs and addiction class. Interesting stuff on addiction for that particular lecture. Add: distress from the Awakening, analysis of Old Woman Magoun, and reviewing French verbs, particularly the passe compose etre ones. Surprisingly, I found sleep quite well. My alarm went off. I didn't hear it. Instead, I woke up suddenly to hear old Daphne Loves Derby songs whispering from my Mac.
Immediate thoughts: Oh gosh, I love the band.
I love their songs. And I especially love their lyrics. After battling through the complexity of literary characters from the mentioned stories and trying to conversate with them about drug use in French, I felt an odd sense of relief. For a moment, I felt like I was back in high school years, listening to the songs on my MP3 player while laying in bed. I felt at peace. Undisturbed. I was back at home, with my mom most likely preparing food and my dad reading a book, or watching PBS. I felt secure again. I felt safe. I couldn't wait to eat dinner with my family.
The pangs from realizing the feeling was all nostalgia brought me back to the present. I fell asleep again to thoughts of my classes. More verbs, more symbolism and imagery to refine into a paper argument, and more about drugs to learn.
I love their songs. And I especially love their lyrics. After battling through the complexity of literary characters from the mentioned stories and trying to conversate with them about drug use in French, I felt an odd sense of relief. For a moment, I felt like I was back in high school years, listening to the songs on my MP3 player while laying in bed. I felt at peace. Undisturbed. I was back at home, with my mom most likely preparing food and my dad reading a book, or watching PBS. I felt secure again. I felt safe. I couldn't wait to eat dinner with my family.
The pangs from realizing the feeling was all nostalgia brought me back to the present. I fell asleep again to thoughts of my classes. More verbs, more symbolism and imagery to refine into a paper argument, and more about drugs to learn.
I always tell my friends, "Nostalgia is overrated." I still think it is. Living in the past has been a problem for me. I dwell a lot. I prefer to live in a secure world, constructed of my past experiences. What is known can be controlled. In a way, this thought is similar to that of Old Woman Magoun, who uses the tragic experiences of her young daughter's life to regulate the development of her grandchild. I won't be extreme in attempting to control the future. I certainly will not let my granddaughter eat poison berries, like Old Woman Magoun does in the story. I will try my best to move forward, even though every part of me will warn me otherwise: to be cautious, to avoid attachments, and to avoid getting hurt.
It's a difficult thing to do, beyond what is familiar and secure. My temporary moment of relief was nice. I liked it. But I don't think I should get caught up in it again for a long time.
It's a difficult thing to do, beyond what is familiar and secure. My temporary moment of relief was nice. I liked it. But I don't think I should get caught up in it again for a long time.
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