to make a long story short

Relocated

2010-07-16T15:52:00.002-04:00

After 4 years at this address, this blog has relocated to my personal website. You can now find it at www.oliviahubertallen.com under the Journal tab.

Thanks for following!

- Olivia Hubert-Allen

with her hands.

2009-08-06T22:52:00.003-04:00

Creativity can be a funny thing.

At least for me, who goes through periods of creative floods and droughts. Sometimes my mind is there but deep down I have nothing to say. Other times there is so much to express but I simply can't engage my communication skills. It almost feels like to produce anything truly wonderful, the stars of my inner solar system must be perfectly aligned. And at the rate I've been going lately, I think Hailey's Comet is headed here sooner.

One of the strangest things has been happening to me lately. Instead of turning to words, my usual modus operandi for creative outlet, I can only find interest in the physical world -- I just want to create something with my hands.

I'm not writing poems. I'm not writing stories. I'm not writing thoughts. I'm not writing grocery lists. All I can dream about is refinishing hardwood floors, reupholstering chairs, learning to make pottery, cutting a friends hair and painting elaborate patterns onto just about any surface that is non-textured, boring looking and my landlord won't be angry about.

I'm not sure what has brought about this change of direction but I must admit it is a part of me that I am excited to explore. I've always been, at least to myself, Olivia the writer. But now I get to dabble with Olivia the carpenter, Olivia the designer, Olivia the artist?

Perhaps you can expect more pictures posts on this blog soon enough. :)

fit tonic.

2009-07-13T23:52:00.000-04:00

Just a quick little promotion to my work blog, Fit Tonic. It's all about fitness and being in the outdoors. I'm still getting started with it but add it to your list of places to stop in from time to time. Some of the information is local to Hampton Roads, but often times it's universal too!

http://hamptonroads.com/blogs/fit-tonic

new in norfolk.

2009-07-06T23:08:00.000-04:00

It's been about a month and I have gotten quite settled into my life here in Norfolk. Just as I felt during my short stays in London and the Poconos, moving always brings about a brief intermission, but soon enough you are settled down in the rhythm of life.

Wake up. Shower. Cereal. Stairs. Car. Desk. Desk. Desk. Lean Cuisine. Desk. Desk. Desk. Car. Stairs. Sneakers. Stairs. Pavement. Pavement. Stairs. Water. Balcony. Dinner. Book. Sink. Bed.

I've been quite deliberate about keeping my pace of life slow here. After hitting on 8 cylinders 24-hours a day my last few years of college, the workplace is really quite relaxing. Especially right now, as I am probably the youngest person at the Pilot by about 6 years, am still new to the place, and expectations seem to be low. I'll give them full throttle when they're ready.

My little life in Norfolk is mostly quiet -- except for a few exceptions when I find myself sharing too many drinks with my new friends.

I think it's nice to live alone.

When you live alone, every action you take can be completely selfish, and there is nobody there to object. You also sleep so soundly because when you are ready for bed, your little environment goes to bed too. The food is always exactly what you wanted -- though there are always leftovers, which can get a little annoying. The hair in the drain is always your own and there is nobody to bother you should you choose to watch some low-brow television show about Hollywood's Top 50 gorgeous men.

Bliss.

The only thing I don't like so far are the bills.

Booooo.

greeting cards.

2009-06-18T22:52:00.003-04:00

In the era of e-mail, instant messaging, cell phones and Twitter, many have remarked that we're losing the art and affection of handwritten letters. Somehow a quick e-mail banged out in 12 point Arial just doesn't hold the same weight as a carefully chosen greeting card, engraved with flawed handwriting and marked with an autograph at the end (bonus points if it's barely legible.)

Since I was in high school, I have saved every single greeting card that has been given to me. I think that there is just something so intensely personal and thoughtful about sending a real greeting card these days, that I just can't throw them away.

Instead. I file them.

This evening as I was cleaning out my files, I noticed that the section I have dedicated to the cards was bulging. A few swollen, misshapen files have lost all purpose under the tremendous weight of my collection. I decided to go through and remove all the envelopes, in an attempt to cut down on the clutter.

Two hours later. I had re-read every card.

In these moments I relieved birthdays -- seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty and twenty-one -- I relieved past moments of glory, illnesses, gifts given, party's attended, milestones achieved.

I read through my Dad's long, thoughtful notes, like when I turned 18:
"Whew! College beginnings, 18th Birthday and all the wonder, promise and excitement of a new chapter in your life ... The next 4 years will change you in ways that you expect and don't expect (but are good)." He also includes his advice in three parts 1) Be safe, take care of yourself 2) Study hard 3) Have fun.

A Valentine from my stand-in parents while I finished high school, Val and George Padgett:
"Olivia, Happy Valentine's Day! It's so nice to have you still close by. Love, Val & George."

My Mother's short and sweet notes which are always on the world's funniest cards, like when I was getting ready to go to college:
"Learn a lot about life, love and what you study! Have fun! I love you! Mom"

A note from a favorite professor after I was chosen as Editor-in-Chief of the paper:
"This is a lifelong commitment, not just a 1-year gig ... establish a high expectation of quality from the start; don't put up with slackers or gripers -- dump them ... Believe in the struggle! Janna"

Or from a roommate, who was just a few months younger than me when I turned 21:
"I hope your 21st is the best year ever! Now you can buy me alcohol too. :) Love you! Stef"

From my little brother who didn't bother to write anything in the card, not even sign it:
Card reads: It's your birthday! Maybe this will finally be the year that mom and dad start loving you as much as me. Enjoy your day. (Thanks, Zach.)

From Fritz, my Mother's boyfriend, who has my favorite all caps handwriting:
Card reads: You're 21! One day you'll look back on this birthday and not remember a damn thing! Handwritten: ... AND THAT DAY WILL BE SEPT. 4! CONGRATULATIONS YOU FINALLY MADE IT! Fritz & Aimee"

But, of all the cards there is one that continually sticks out as my favorite card of all time. It was given to me just days after I was born by my godfather, Jim. Though I haven't spoken with him in years, I always keep the words he wrote to me over 21 years ago close by:

This is a long one, but I just can't pull an exceprt from it and let you sample the letter. I feel it's something that has to be taken in full.

Card reads:
Dear God
be good to me
the sea is so wide
and my boat is
so small

Handwritten:
Dear Olivia,
This card has been with me since 1970, hanging in a frame on one wall and then another and then about and so on, until tonight, when I took it down to send to you.

This card means a lot to me, which makes it a worthy gift. Your mother and father have been in the same room with this card many times. Long before you were, or were even dreamed of, your mom and dad -- conscious or not (I'll leave it to them to explain "consciousnesses" to you) have blessed this card with their presence. And it is "your presence" that I celebrate by sending it.

Welcome to this planet - this lovely place, so full of all that is wonderful and wholesome and good. It is not exactly the world I would have chosen to welcome you to (and even more than me, I know that your mom and dad are committed to this world being better for you as you grow up). And this is the only world I have to welcome you to.

So WELKOMMEN -- be happy here, find the beauty and wonder and awe. Welcome, small one, to a planet large enough to dream and hope and love in. And a planet so in need of dreams and hopes and love, most of all, love.

You are a precious thing - just by being alive, you are precious. And I give thanks to a God you might some day meet face-to-face for you!

May the sea be what it will be -- wide, fierce and deep -- and may your boat, small as it is, bear you to wonderous lands and great adventures.

Benn and Josh and Mimi - who I love - wish you, with me, a pleasant voyage.

Shalom
Jim

Thanks for the lovely words, Jim. My voyage is going just grand.

naming the president.

2009-06-10T21:52:00.004-04:00

One of my responsibilities as the Online Community Producer is to keep watch over the comments that people are posting at the bottom of PilotOnline stories. Now if you've ever wasted enough time to read the comments that pop up at the bottom of a YouTube video, then you know the caliber of comment that I often get to see. I'm not sure what it is about commenting that entices vulgar extremists, but my hunch is it has something to do with ego.

Anywho. Lately I've noticed that our right-wing constituents seem to be struggling to decide on which derogatory name they will use when referring to President Barack Obama (who, as far as they are concerned, is planning to take away their guns, kill their unborn babies, institute a Marxist philosophy on all Americans, and hold the middle-class hard-working tax-paying law-abiding gun-totting white man down). Here's a little sampling of what I've seen so far:

BO
Barack HUSSEIN Obama (can we not give it a rest yet?)
Obummer
Barack Obailout

There are countless others, but they all seem to be reworkings of the same four concepts: he smells, he shares a name with a mass-murdurer, they're bummed he's in office and he's partly responsible for the bailout.

I wonder if any of these will eventually stick and become as pervasive as "W" (pronounced DUB-yuh). Perhaps approval ratings have to dip below 40% before the country finds the need to choose a mean-spirited nickname. I guess well have to wait and see. In the meantime, I'll leave you with the nicknames of other presidents past.

Gerald Ford - Jerry, the accidental president (ouch)
Calvin Coolidge - Silent Cal
Andrew Johnson - Sir Veto
Dwight D. Eisenhower - Kansas Cyclone
James Buchanan - The Do-Nothing President
(for more)

returning post.

2009-06-01T19:27:00.003-04:00

Please excuse my long hiatus from blogging. Between scrambling to finish my senior projects, applying for jobs, running a different blog as part of a class project and maintaining a little bit of sanity, I neglected my blog.

But to my defense, life has been happening REALLY fast.

It was like I went to bed one day in February and woke up in June in a completely different city, surrounded by different people and different things, and calling a different place home. A place that is currently lacking some crucial elements -- like a couch, a television, gas for the stove and a shower curtain.

So to catch you up to speed in the shortest time possible:

- I graduated! (yay!) Family was in town. Lots of chaos. Lots of eating. Too much to do that I barely had time to enjoy it.

- I got a job! I started today (yay!) as an Online Producer with PilotOnline.com/HamtponRoads.com which are the websites associated with The Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk, Va.

- I moved! To a cute little apartment that sits among the tree tops in the third story of this 1900s apartment building. There are skylights, a refrigerator, central air conditioning and a shower -- what more could a girl ask for?

All in all I am enjoying my life transition and really like getting to know my new community. I've been going for long runs to get to know the neighborhood -- something I rarely had time for in Elon because schoolwork, friends or Smitty's was always there to distract me. Though I consider myself a very social person, there is something completely relaxing and liberating about living somewhere where every person you cross is a stranger, and every new acquaintance holds the promise of becoming a great friend.

More to come later. Check back!

salute shorts.

2009-02-27T13:58:00.003-05:00

Hello friends.

I just wanted to give you a heads up about a new blog that I have started for a class assignment in my Methods in Interactivity Class. In response to the limited spaces where artists at Elon can share their work, I have created a community arts blog dedicated to "short stories" that can be told through poems, narrative, photos, films, etc.

Please take some time and explore Salute These Shorts.

Many thanks.

sitting out.

2009-02-25T23:51:00.001-05:00

I sat in the crowd of 20-somethings, who only a few years ago were teenagers with me, and watched Ben Folds hammer his piano with intensity. The seated concert was awkward and uncomfortable. My legs ached to stand, rush the stage and cheer, but the 20-somethings around me sat with their beers in their hands and their blackberry’s buzzing, craving attention, in their pockets. The music was amazing, as I have come to expect. But while sitting I wondered if my music taste has become antiquated enough that all my concerts will now be seated.

I remember back to my days at the Warped Tour, when I would dye my hair pink and wear my coolest ringer tee. Standing out in the sun for hours, my friends and I would watch bands play their 20 minute sets. We’d rush from stage to stage, jockeying for a position toward the front. As the hot North Carolina sun beat down on our golden skin, the dehydration sank deeper, touching our bones, until we conceded to pool our funds and spend $6 on a bottle of water.

Is it weird to rue the day that a painful, blistering, musical experience is permanently traded in for the luxuries and comforts of plush red velvet seating, $500,000 audio systems and expensive lighting?

curl genocide.

2009-02-12T14:12:00.002-05:00

A dabble of serum (clear goo).
A golf ball size squeeze of moose (fluffy goo).
A upside down fluff.
And off we go.

It seems simple enough, but my quick hair regimen took nearly 19 years to perfect. Nineteen years of combing (read: screaming in pain), no-more tangles spray, pony-tails and monster banana clips. For a girl raised by straight-haired parents, sometimes I think it’s a miracle I figured it out at all. I’ve had every haircut known to man in search of the perfect shape (yes, there was a mullet-like frock in the early 90s.) And still to this day I’m learning new things about my ever-evolving mane.

For years I tortured myself with flat irons and straightening goo, trying to get my hair to look like my parents – like everybody else’s. I hated my frizz and my dirty blonde color. I hated how any bit of rain or humidity would squelch any chance at a good hair day. I hated how my hair had to be difficult. I just wanted normal straight hair that I could comb, blow dry and style without an hour of effort and a clenched jaw in frustration.

Eventually I came to terms with my hair. I found the right products and techniques at the bible of curly hair’s Web site: www.naturallycurly.com. I stopped trying to control my hair and just let it go. The less I touched it or thought about it, the better it looked. Now, every day my hair is a surprise. Sometimes it’s more curly, sometimes it’s more wavy. Sometimes it’s got a round shape, sometimes more square. I’ve given up on dissecting the science behind it altogether, and couldn’t be more happy for it.

Perhaps it is my sense of personal triumph and acceptance with my hair that makes me overly sensitive to any twinge of anti-curl undertones in American culture. I frowned when the Anne Hathaway got made over in “The Princess Diaries.” Her wild, wavy hair was tamed to a pin-straight look instead of developed into something rich and beautiful. Just the other day on Bravo!’s show, “The Millionaire Matchmaker,” a woman was told that she needed to permanently straighten her hair because, “men don’t like straight hair. They want hair they can run their fingers through.”
Ugh.

All I can think of is the poor teenage girls, sitting at home with their straightener’s and chemical goo, planning a method of attack on their beautiful, but undeveloped, curls and waves. Please, America. Be accepting of us all. Stop the curl genocide.

pleasing people.

2009-02-06T12:24:00.001-05:00

What is the difference between a muffin and a cupcake?

Nothing, really.

A muffin is a cupcake that we eat for breakfast. Sure, we may skip the icing so that we can feel like we are, in fact, doing something good for ourselves. We might also fool ourselves by thinking that replacing oil with milk in the ingredients makes much difference. But the cold hard truth of the matter is – muffins are just cupcakes that make you feel less guilty after you eat one.

There are a lot of things that we do so that we can feel better about ourselves. I was thinking earlier about the purpose behind actions we take – like buying new clothes even though our closets can suffice or adding a new gadget to our repertoire of techy-goods (yes, new iPod shuffle, I’m talking about you). But really, at the end of the day what really makes us feel good are things that are often beyond our control – the love from another or acknowledgement at work.

Lately, I’ve been trying to kick an addiction.

No, I’m not hooked on meth or throwing away thousands on a poker game. Fear not wary parents.

My addiction is much simpler, a little less devastating, but still quite destructive. It was born out of too many years in academia. Too many ups, and too few downs. The coddling of teachers, parents and peers. The unparalleled satisfaction.

I am addicted to pleasing people.

Lately it seems as if everything I do is not for myself. I’m so eager for the enthusiasm and appreciation of others, that my own interests get put on the back burner. Whether it’s spending a bit too much time on a class project, or doing favors that I really shouldn’t take on. Sometimes I look up and realize how cute and juvenile my desire for seeing happiness in others is. I know that wanting to please others isn’t a bad thing, but when their happiness trumps my own there is certainly an issue. Or even worse, on the occasion when my happiness depends on theirs. It’s just bad news bears.

I’ve kicked this addiction before, during my semester abroad in London where the only person I was able to please was myself. I came back to the states like I had just come out of rehab, all refreshed with my new healthy habits. But slowly, I have fallen back into the cadence that is so much a part of me I know it must originate in my heart and pump effortlessly through my veins.

So here I am again. Waking up in the mornings thinking, “Olivia, what do YOU want to do today?”

“Hmmm... eat a muffin.”

imaginative infant.

2009-01-26T12:11:00.003-05:00

A few Sunday’s a week, I work in the nursery at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Comforter. For someone who is usually more annoyed by children than amused, this has been a great exercise of my patience – and has really softened my life-long aggravation with children. I’ve enjoyed watching the kids grow and develop from week to week, like the baby who just a month ago would spend the entire morning in my arms but who is now sitting on his own and starting to interact with the older children. It truly makes me marvel at the rapid complexities of the human brain.

My time in the nursery has brought about several thought provoking encounters. This past Sunday I was sitting on the floor, playing with Anna, when an elderly woman walked into the room cradling a baby doll. The doll was an infant snuggled in a pink blanket. The woman held the doll close to her chest. A man accompanying her announced, winking and using an unusual voice, that they had an addition for the nursery – this child.

Kissing the doll, the woman handed the infant doll to the other caregiver saying, “Now, she doesn’t eat much.” We assured her that we would take good care of her child. She hesitated as she walked out of the door, like a real mother with reluctance to leave her newborn child.

We soon learned that this woman was going through doll therapy – a treatment often used with patients suffering from dementia or a form of Alzheimer's. Without a doll, the woman might worry about where her “children” are, and go outside to look for them. The anxiety some women experience is so great that doctors have found giving them a doll to take care of greatly improves their quality of life and calms them.

This got me to wondering what I might cling to if I were to suffer from dementia or Alzheimer’s. Clearly this woman cherished her days as a mother, when other lives depended on her – not the other way around. Would I cling to my days on the soccer field? Nights spend playing spades with friends? Or my travels through Europe?

I’m quite certain that above all I would cling to reporting. It is the one thing that at this point in my life I would hate to lose the ability to do. I can see myself now, carrying around a notebook and pen (with pencil backup, of course) interviewing people for stories that will never run anywhere, making up deadlines that I would never need to meet, fuming when a phantom rival paper beats mine to a story or takes ideas from stories I’ve written. I only hope that people will humor me enough to give way to my imagination and play along.

When the woman returned we brought her the infant, saying that she’d slept the entire time.

“Well she never does that at home,” she said.

“Perhaps you should bring her here more often,” I replied.

beverage gallery.

2009-01-20T15:47:00.000-05:00

We laid her down tonight,
that beautiful girl,
who of course went out,
wearing velvet pearls.
We combed her hair,
fastened with a pin
of bobby's nature,
plain and thin.
As pipers played
walked through the crowd
we laid her down
on soggy ground
drenched with our tears
not sweat nor rain
time spent in crossing
now oft and lain

Tonight she licked her lips
and sighed
for she saw it coming
from far and wide
Gather, gather
for her now
the time has come
to lay her down
in fields of memory
where love grows high
she rests tonight
a bid goodbye.

A cycle comes complete
and we take your glowing crown
to help us all remember
the night we laid you down.

maynard house.

2008-12-06T02:02:00.003-05:00

My newest multimedia project can be seen at:
http://student.elon.edu/oallen/blee/Maynard/home2.html

It is about the Maynard House, a historic home with a rich history where Elon University's President lives. One of the most unique things about the house is that it is where Elon hosts famous speakers who come to campus. Desmond Tutu, George H.W. Bush, Queen Noor of Jordan and Anna Quindlen have all shared the same mattress. So cool! Definitely check out the flash presentation to learn more.

This piece was done for The Pendulum.

somber senioritis.

2008-11-20T00:54:00.006-05:00

Senioritis is not as fun in college as it was in high school.

High school was full of laziness, early releases and nostalgia. Lunch periods were brimming with optimistic talk about college and the future. I remember walking around campus with a pride as I thought about the college life that awaited me. Though we might now have known where we would soon be headed, we did know that it was going to be some place great. Or at least some place better than high school ...

But being a senior in college -- is not fun.

A gathering with friends for lunch feels more like a wake than a celebration. Phrases like "The Dow fell another 400 points today," "The (insert almost any newspaper in America here) cut 10% of its newsroom today," or "Nope, I can't find any job postings for the tri-state area in my field..." fly across the table as quickly as snippets of gossip used to be traded.

It's November. Relatively early for sure. But neither myself, nor any of my friends, have any idea where we are headed next year.

We gaze at our plates in despair, wondering if being a 2009 graduate will be something we boast to our grandchildren about 40 years from now. "You think your life is hard? Well I graduated in 2009..."

I suppose all of us are just anxious ... worried ... and fragile.

Our entire lives to this point have been dedicated to setting ourselves up to take flight after college. We're ready to make our mark on this world. We want to change the things we don't like and push our respective industries further. We are wide-eyed, full of inspiration and highly capable...

but

We are graduating in 2009.

We do not know where we will go. If we will have health care. If we will make a livable wage. If we will actually (*shudder*) have to move back in with our parents. Or sleep in a tent. We are stocking up on health services now, just in case, and saving our pennies for a few extra months survival if jobs aren't immediate.

And though being a member of the class of 2009, I can only feel pity and frustration with the deck of cards I've been dealt, all it takes is a look around to realize that it is not just the class of 2009 that is worried. Everyone is worried. Everyone is anxious. We are all fragile.

We are living through 2009.

(Though I do think well make it. And be OK. Eventually.)

speaking of letters.

2008-10-15T23:41:00.003-04:00

I recently received a letter to the editor that reads as follows:

The Alamance County Republican Party would like to welcome back the students of Elon University to a very interesting and important election year.

For those of you who prefer the Palin Power energy drink of less taxes, less government, and more freedom, our headquarters is located at 16 N.E. Court Square in Graham, NC, and is open from 1-6pm Monday-Friday. The phone number is (336) 222-8289.

To those of you who want to sip the Obama koolaid (flavor of your choice) of higher taxes, big brother government, and socialism, the Democrats will gladly serve you up!

I did not publish it because I see it as an advertisement -- something people pay a nice penny to do in our paper -- and something that we prohibit in Letters to the Editor. I also thought the letter lacked any opinion, seeing as it doesn't actually approach any of the issues that separate the parties (aside from the surface propaganda that is...)

After not printing this letter I received a very severe phone call from the author that I suspect was meant to intimidate me. I explained our policies, and that we have refused similar letters from the Democratic party, but this person continued to say that we were editorializing, Obama-loving liberals.

Now I know most of you who read my blog are media people so I want to know: What would you do? To print or not to print? Did I make the right decision or was my refusal to print this letter an unjustified act of editorializing?

harvard psa.

2008-09-24T00:10:00.002-04:00

I was at a conference at Harvard this past weekend where we talked about political engagement among students. I'll go into more detail later, but for now I wanted to share our PSA which we threw together in, oh, about 15 minutes from beginning to end. I really like the script so am hoping we can recreate it back on campus with a higher quality.

Campus Voices | View Content

happy birthday cakes.

2008-09-19T00:26:00.005-04:00

I, like many people in this world, don't always love my job.

Scooping ice cream. Getting dirty. Washing dishes. Mopping floors. It's the perfect job for a student, I suppose. The kind of job that gives you a reason to study hard and dream big.

However, there is one thing about working at an ice cream store that I absolutely LOVE. (And no, the novelty of free ice cream wore off four years ago...)

Ice Cream Birthday Cakes.

On nights that I'm lucky, I can occupy my time filling cake orders. I think that there is something really special about being able to make someone's birthday cake. Not only is it a cake for celebration, but it is one that they will remember all year. It is usually a gift -- so somehow, for making it, I feel like I am giving too. Ice cream cakes are particularly memorable because they break the mold of the everyday boring grocery store sheet cakes that have become the staple at children's birthday parties.

As I ice the frozen confection, I imagine what the recipient of the cake is like. Did the person who filled the cake order choose the right flavor of ice cream? Ohh... what if they don't like ice cream? Or worse ... a lactose-intolerant!

By the time I get to choosing the color for the trim, I check the name that the cake is for. Typical but nice names, like John, Sarah and David, get the Electric Blue. Traditional girls names like Susan, Ashley or Wendy get the Baby Pink. Names that sound like they are of old people -- Wallace, Marie, Bob and Fred -- Asparagus Green. If I like the name, like Lily, Hannah, Landon or Beckett -- I give them my favorite color, Golden Yellow.

The inscribing is the best part. With a big, fat circle tip I write HAPPY BIRTHDAY in uppercase block letters. By this time I've usually gone on to dreaming of what the person will think when they are presented with my cake. I always hope for, "Wow! How lovely!" and wish not "Hmm... looks a little rough around the edges..."

After the sprinkles have been artfully strewn and the box assembled, I place my work of art back in the freezer where it will wait until it's picked up. As I set the cake down I always think to myself, "Happy Birthday John! I hope it's a good one..."

Really. I do.

a relationship with joy.

2008-08-27T23:59:00.003-04:00

And life is eternal;
and love is immortal;
and death is only a horizon;
and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

On Tuesday I attended the memorial service of my last grandparent, my mother’s mother – Joyce Barbara Harris Hubert Sexton. It was held in Denver, Colorado – a beautiful and free spirited place, that truly suited the kind of person she was.

It is odd to me that through her death, I feel closer to her than I ever felt to her during her life. Somehow, as my family members sat around drinking beer and telling the many wild stories about my grandmother, I was able to derive an image of her that I have been seeking for many years.

Throughout my life, I have always felt slightly gypped in the grandparent department. To start with, both of my grandfathers passed before my birth. My grandmothers were always in states so distant, that trips were rare. Phone calls also were infrequent, and generally only consisted of the kinds of surface level questions that grandparents always ask – how is school? What did you do yesterday? What’s your favorite subject?

As I entered college I started to feel as though I was missing out on something in having such a small relationship with my grandmother. Knowing that phone calls would never really let us get to know each other, I wrote her a letter. It was a long letter, that said more than I normally would tell. I signed it “Write Back! Olivia.”

I don’t know why, but my grandmother never did. I assume she just read my plea as just another way to sign a letter. I know that her non-response was not intentional. But – I decided that I had tried, and perhaps Joy and I weren’t destined to be best friends.

This past Tuesday, as I heard stories about her, I couldn’t help but to learn how much we had in common all along. She was so interesting, and had so many stories to tell. Though she was always reserved to tell them – I can’t help but wish I had tried harder.

my place in the sun.

2008-08-01T10:47:00.001-04:00

Good Morning August.

Happy Birthday Mom.

It is hard to believe that the last of the summer months has come. It feels like only days ago that I arrived in Stroudsburg in my Honda – the trunk and backseat brimming with whatever I could get to fit. Hauling my laundry baskets and boxes up into the corner bedroom of Turning Point made me reminisce about moving into a dorm. My first night was lonely. I took to the back porch to admire the view, and ended up plowing through the new David Sedaris book in short time.

But now, just weeks later, I feel at home in this strange place. For the first time in a long time I’ve taken time to be by myself. Though I’ve made friends here, I still spend most of my evenings reading, writing, dancing, cooking or – when I’m feeling just so – watching a movie. In a way, my time here has been like a private retreat. I’ve made progress on my personal journey to wherever it is I’m heading. Happiness? Success? Death? Nobody really knows. But we’ve all got our eyes on the horizon in preparation for what’s next.

I’ve learned that I am the type of person who gets attached to the experiences I encounter. I think back to the days of summer camp, when my ride home was full of tears and throat clenching pains. I suppose not much has changed, because I’ve never met an experience I didn’t like. Well… OK … I guess I would have been happy missing out on that awful haircut. But when it comes to the places I go, and the people I meet, I’m hooked. I feel as though I could fit in just about anywhere – which really, ultimately, makes me feel like I may never find that one place where things are perfect enough to stop.

storm sleep.

2008-07-23T09:45:00.000-04:00

I was awoken last night around 4 a.m. to bolts of lighting crossing the sky and the crack and growl of thunder so loud I could feel it. Looking out my window, over the valley below was the darkest of nights that I've seen here so far. Yet, when the lightning flashed, the entire valley was illuminated in neon white. It almost had a heavenly glow.

I closed my windows. I put on a pair of socks. Tucking myself into bed I thought of how lovely it is to be able to sleep while such chaos unravels beyond my window. In the earth's most violent moments, I enjoyed the most peaceful of mine. And yet, when the sun came up today, long after the storm had passed, my violence returns and our turbulent lives march on.

how to make cupcakes.

2008-07-22T10:17:00.000-04:00

In anticipation for one of my co-workers birthday's, I decided to bake some cupcakes as a gesture of friendship, and to show off my awesome baking skills. After a few minutes in the cake mix aisle at Mr. Z's, I settled on "Golden Vanilla" cake with "Original Chocolate" Icing. You can't really go wrong right?

Well, all was going well until I got home and found that the kitchen in which I'm living has few of the necessary cupcake baking supplies. And so, a how to guide for you.

HOW TO BAKE CUPCAKES IN AN UNDER-EQUIPPED KITCHEN.

STEP 1. Get creative and find a container large enough to hold your batter. A Coffee pot. A sauce pan. A metal flour container. Or even a pitcher ... these are all legitimate options.

Step 2. I know you might be used to an electric mixer, but you're roughing it, so you're going to have to suck it up without it. Grab a spoon and stir like you've never stirred before. And get rid of those clumps now, nobody wants a lumpy cake.

Step 3. Quality control. Take a little taste and make sure everything has come out right. Remember that wine tasting course you took. Consider the texture, the sweetness, where the cake hits your tongue. You might want to rake air over the cake to allow its natural flavors to be released. And whatever you do, do not swallow. That's just tacky.

Step 4. Now is the part where your container selection plays a vital role. Pitcher & Coffee Pot > Sauce pan & Flour container. If your container has a handle, get to pouring. If it doesn't, you made some bad choices along the way -- wash that spoon to get rid of your germs and start ladling.

Oh, and in case you were wondering. Your kitchen definitely does not have cupcake pans. Make sure you buy some aluminum ones at the store. You get 15 cents off if you choose ones decorated with an American Flag.

Step 5. Bake. But watch your cupcakes constantly. You set the temperature to 350, but you never really know how hot this oven is. It's burned your popadums before.

Now stop reading, and start baking!

personality paradox.

2008-07-16T22:45:00.000-04:00

Last year I posted this…

February 24, 2007

I believe that everybody has a couple adjectives by which they can be defined. These words weave together to paint a loose picture of the person – something like a poorly contrived watercolor painting. Though details are indefinite, shapes and figures can still be perceived. Picture a Matisse painting that has been sitting in the rain for a few hours ... or stare at a bright light for 10 seconds then close your eyes – paying close attention to the floating neon shapes. Yes, somehow in my imagination these blurry images can represent the foundation of a personality. Don't ask me how. Just go with it.

I don’t know if it is my time here in London, or the natural growth of self – but I am beginning to wonder if the adjectives that I had chosen as mine are still valid. Is my definition of self supposed to be the true person I am, or an idealistic person I aspire to be? One one hand I want to pursue an idealistic sense of self. But on the other hand, I wonder if I am neglecting parts of my personality that I should be embracing. Is “me” good enough? Or should I keep working at being “better than me”?

I realize that this is not the most interesting post. In fact, no matter how I phrase my sentences, it really is quite confusing. But here is the carry-home message: I am thinking... a lot... about who I am and what I want to be. I am at an extraordinary point in my life where I have an incredible amount of control over my future. If I wanted to, I could change my major and alter where I will be in 5 years completely. It is an uncomfortable amount of power that I’m not quite sure what to do with.

In short, every decision that I make today will play into my life 50 years from now.

No pressure.

I have now decided that I was completely wrong.

Thus, my new post:

The optimist. The wit. The prep. The geek. The rebel. The tomboy. The oxford chic. The self-conscious. The proud. The ambitious. The wandering. The American. The youngster. The wild.

I have always defined myself by the opinions of others. In their fleeting experience with me, I earn an adjective. It is impossible to summarize a personality in a few words, but we all do it with each new acquaintance. It’s like somehow a few words are enough to map an entire person.

But truly, adjectives will never come close to capturing the complexities of the human personality. We are ever-changing. We are temperamental. We are phony. We are honest. If one word was ever given the task of encompassing a personality, it could only be “infinite.”

I decided, about two weeks ago, to stop thinking about my adjectives – and to stop thinking about the adjectives of others.

Maybe, we can just allow each other to be infinite and enjoy the ride instead.

analyzing april.

2008-07-12T23:53:00.000-04:00

It is only the darkest of nights where our secrets are kept.
Hiding away in the dampest of places.
No stone to be turned, no porch to be swept.
Just secrets kept under tongue and shoe laces.

Coughing and bitter the air circles round her
Joyous at souls morbid defeat
She rumbles and quakes and cries a soft murmur
Knowing good and well she’s been beat

In fragment, unwoven, a tapestry
Made of life stories it hangs on the wall
Not yet complete but mere history
The future will bring a close to it all.

Until then she stands, wishing past to be shed
Mouth open, feet dirty she stands with them bare
In a room full of secrets and pieces of thread
She knows that the darkness will keep her there.

delicious disaster.

2008-07-09T23:14:00.000-04:00

I was just sitting down the dinner this evening when I heard a clamoring on the stairs. Somebody was struggling to carry a heavy load I presumed. I live in an apartment that is intermixed with office space, so visitors aren’t exactly infrequent.

I tore opened the box of Ritz Whole Wheat crackers settled on the table before me. A trip to the grocery store had prompted me to buy only things that were on sale, and only things that were discounted with my brand new Mr. Z’s supermarket card. It was a card that I got pressured into signing up for during my last trip to the market, and I am now determined to make it worth my time.

Just as I was preparing to take my first bite, the stranger on the stairs rounded through the doorway and into the kitchen. It wasn’t a face I’ve seen around Kirkridge before.

“Oh hi!” the stranger said, who was clearly more startled than I. He carried a box full of food which he was having trouble negotiating through the tight doorway.

“Howdy,” I replied. In a moment I became incredibly aware of how ridiculous I looked. I was dressed to the nines in my work clothes, hovering over the treasures from my grocery store adventure: a tin can of smoked oysters, a tub of turkey pepperoni, a pack of vanilla pudding and V8 Vegetable juice poured into a coffee mug with ice. Behind me I could hear the humming of the microwave as my Green Giant “Healthy Weight” frozen vegetables were approaching edible temperatures.

“I’m just eating dinner,” I blurted. “It’s well rounded … see?”

The stranger inched toward me, setting the box on the counter behind me.

“Carbs,” I said pointing to the Ritz crackers. “Protein, fat, vegetables, more vegetables and…” I hesitated. “Pudding.”

The man smiled kindly and I knew what he was thinking. “Where’s the fruit?” And just as I was about to explain that I had eaten a sour peach earlier that day…

“I’m Bob, from the bookstore,” he said.

I have always envied people whose names form alliteration with what they do or where they live. Polly from Palmetto. Tim the taxidermist. Amy of Anchorage. Trish the Tightrope Walker. The only way I’ll ever form alliteration is if I go into the osculating fan business – or move to Omaha.

“Ahh… OK. I’m Olivia.”

“I already ate dinner,” Bob said. “I was trying to find the mall everybody’s been talking about.”

“The Stroud mall?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“I don’t know … I’ve only been here two weeks.”

“Oh, you’re the intern.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I need to get to work. Down in the bookstore.”

“Right, bye!”

“Bye.”

And with that, I turned back to my meal. One smoked oyster from the tin, one pepperoni slice, one Ritz cracker… CRUNCH.

The taste of my final year as a poor college intern: Salty.

the ball game.

2008-06-28T23:17:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, my dad took me to my very first Bethlehem Iron Pigs game. The Iron pigs are a new farm team under the Philadelphia Phillies (my one and only baseball team.) They just started up last year, and by all accounts so far are absolutly awful. But... if there is one thing that doesn't matter much when you're at a baseball game, it's the baseball game.

While there my dad talked me into getting a baseball cap -- the first I've owned for at least ten years. Surprisingly, I have fallen in love with this thing, so have decided that it is my fashion accessory for the summer.

Taking a break from watching the game for some lunch. Here I am styling my new headware. Jealous? I know you are.

And since my dad got me to wear the hat, I convinced him to try on my "signature" 70s porn star sun glasses. I think he looks rather dashing, don't you?

And since I'm actually putting photos up (which I never do so enjoy it while it lasts) I'll throw this one up of my little brother Zach and I from earlier this summer. He'll hate that I put this up because he thinks he looks bad in it. But I looked bad in the one that he looked better in, and this is my blog. Sibling revenge...

solitaire in stroudsburg.

2008-06-28T13:47:00.000-04:00

Welcome to life, version three. As a young person it seems like every six months I am thrust into a completely new experience. New opportunities yield new jobs. New jobs bring a new setting. A new setting means new people. To be frank, the past four years have been quite volatile as far as my surroundings are concerned. This is probably reflected in my blog posts – which I do realize are not much more than a string of coming of age stories. Don’t worry, it will eventually pass. But not quite yet … indulge me still.

This summer I am working as the online intern at the Pocono Record in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. It’s a growing town, an hour north of where I learned to ride a bike, spell my name and cut with scissors. Though I am close to good, old and familiar places, I am quite far from any familiar faces. And thus, I have named this blog post: solitaire in stroudsburg.

Here in Stroudsburg, I am living on top of a mountain, in a large office building, in the middle of the woods, by myself. It’s lovely – really and truly it is. But it’s also a tad TOO isolated sometimes.

When I go on walks through the woods after work, I think of all the terrible things that could happen to me. A hungry bear shreds me to pieces to feed her cubs, an escaped convict robs me of my clothing to use as a disguise, a lonely Appalachian Trail hiker locks me in his microbus and leaves me to die and I must eat the old faded leather seats to stay alive. These things sound bad, I know. But what makes them worse is that since I live alone, nobody would notice I’m gone. Sure, after I blew of work for a few days without as much as a phone call they might get concerned – but who knows, I could just be the flaky intern. My parents would grow frustrated with unanswered phone calls, but I do that on a regular basis as it is. Seriously – it would be weeks before people put the pieces together. And by then my organs might be beyond recognition … or I may have run out of car parts to eat.

*deep breath*

The truth is, I don’t really mind being alone. In recent years I’ve learned that I have somewhat of a split personality that gives and takes from introversion and extroversion – and since my life in Elon is mostly the latter, a little alone time won’t hurt, right?

To keep myself occupied, I’ve set a few goals for the summer. Just things to do in my spare time, really.

Learn to take better photos
Actually read Newsweek and The New Yorker cover to cover when I get them
Bring my HTML and CSS skills to a adequate level
Learn Flash
Write more

Week one starts today, and so I’m off to delve in ISO, F-stops, Shutter Speeds and Focusing.

Olivia Hubert-Allen

new backyard.

2008-06-26T23:31:00.000-04:00

From the moment I get home from work, until the time it is either too dark or too cold, I spend my time on the back porch at Kirkridge. Above is a photo taken at dusk -- I'll try to get a nicer morning shot tomorrow.

Olivia Hubert-Allen

tearful trajectory.

2008-06-21T14:47:00.000-04:00

I've never been the type of person to cry about happy things. My tears have always been silent, and reserved for only the most tragic of moments. Even my own mother's soft smile and warm tears during the moments when she has been most proud of me are beyond comprehension.

Until recently.

Perhaps it is a part of growing older, reaching emotional maturity or just being OK about being a sap, but the past year or so of my life has been riddled with happy cries. There was the "unexpected opportunity" cry -- complete with a sinking to the floor and gripping the carpet of my living room. There was the "maternal moment" cry, when I realized that my brother -- despite my requests -- will continue to grow up without my watchful eye. And, a classic this one, the "wedding" cry -- which is characterized by an internal melting and hopefulness.

Now all this talk about crying brings me to my experience today.

As I ascended above the clouds on a Southwest flight from Bowling Green, Kentucky to Columbus, Ohio, I was struck with a profound feeling of calm. Something about looking down at the world below makes life's mistakes, embarrassments, humiliations and shortcomings seem distant and unimportant in the context of space.

I examined my earth, freckled by the shadows of over passing clouds. I was not sad. I was not happy. I was just ... aware.

And then for some reason, my throat tightened and eyes watered. Unblinking, I felt a well of water build beneath my lower eye. I looked up -- hoping for some evaporation -- if a tear doesn't fall you're not really crying, right? I took a deep breath, sat back in my seat and watched the man next to me flip through SkyMall.

Reclining Chairs. Gardening Gizmos. Massage wands. Golf ball carriers. Monogrammed Towels.

In less than a minute, the moment had passed.

Nothing like worthless retail to destroy an emotion.

Olivia Hubert-Allen

power.

2008-06-16T08:44:00.001-04:00

I got into journalism and politics so I could change the world. But the more and more that I am venturing into this craft, I am figuring that I should probably have gotten into business instead. Since the end of the Cold War, the world is being run more and more by money and less and less by governments. Whatever is a journalist to do?

Proper update coming soon, I promise. I'm a fair-weather blogger, I'll admit it.

apostro-no.

2008-05-02T16:10:00.000-04:00

tisk tisk New York. Improper use of an apostrophe.

The journalism never stops.

online paper.

2008-04-13T23:28:00.000-04:00

I just have to share because I'm really excited about this!

I rigged up some magic tonight so The Pendulum's print version is now viewable online.

Check it out and be impressed.

I love the Internet.

sounds of silence.

2008-04-13T22:41:00.000-04:00

I grew up on music. Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, The Who, The Beatles. Dinner time was often accompanied by the kind of music that could start a revolution. I heard lyrics about the Vietnam war, social injustice, poverty, drugs and sex. By the age of eight I had a pretty clear idea about the state of the world. And not just because my parents told me so -- everything I learned, I learned from Dylan.

But then, after the fall of Napster somewhere around 8th grade, my life filled with silence. I didn't buy albums for years. I couldn't be bothered to spend $15 on a CD. The iTunes era was yet to find its way to light, Rap and R&B ruled the airwaves and I was just ... bored with it all. I liked the idea of music, but was too apathetic to find anything to truly suit my evolving tastes. I flirted briefly with punk, because that's what all the other kids were doing, but it just felt too manufactured, a tad to whiny, nothing that reflected who I was.

Then finally, sometime this past summer, the music started again. On a seven hour solo car ride from North Carolina to Pennsylvania I had nobody to talk to, and nothing to do, but explore the depths of my iPod. Suddenly, in an instant, it was like music made me feel alive again. I danced -- or since I was in my car it was more of a wiggling bottom with arm flourishments. I sang. I laughed. I tapped my breaks. I opened my sunroof and let the wind tease my hair into giant afro of fuzz. The music was so loud that I missed 10 phone calls. The moment was one I won't forget.

Ever since I've had an insatiable appetite for music. I keep a little piece of paper wadded up in my purse with fractions of lyrics from songs I hear, and like, and google, then download.

This all brings me to the tragedy that occurred last week. After 6 years of good service my mp3 player died. I tried to revive it with that "restore" setting -- but no -- now it only loads A-M of my artists and then decides it's had enough.

The silence is beginning to creep back into my life. Oh horrors! Refurbished OLD edition iPods still come at $150 a pop. Ooph! Note to parents: if you're reading a "congratulations, you're an amazing daughter!" present would be OK with me right about now... ;)

decompressing europe.

2008-04-06T23:18:00.000-04:00

There is so much to say since I last wrote that it almost seems hopeless to try and catch up.

I finally made my trip east of the Atlantic and had an absolutely phenomenal time.

London was red wine, warm smiles and wet ankles.
Lake Garda was mozzarella and rocket pizza.
Lugano was Italian conversations, friends, fondue and chocolate.
Milan was birds - lots of really nasty birds.
Bergamo was salami, cheese and ants.
Brussels was orgasmic pastries and leprechauns.
Maastrict was bicycles, bars, boys kissing and raw fish.
London the second time was old friends, odd friends, old habits, odd feelings.

It is impossible to sum up my trip in any sort of blog post. I did record it all in page after page of my travel journal -- now stained with red ink where blank sheets once laid. With every bit more ink, a little bit more life lived ... a little bit more to remember.

Somehow going back to placed I had been before brought about a closure that I have been missing. It helped me to realize that a quarter of the way around the globe really isn't that far away. Knowing that at any moment, given a bit of room in my bank account and a week off work, I can take to the skies and be in a different life within 8 hours -- it's utterly liberating.

I sometimes wonder if my love of travel means I am discontent with the life I am living now. Am I so excited and enamored with getting away because it releases me from being stuck in the hum-drum of my current existence? I thought about this a lot on my trip. About my overall state of happiness really. I think I may have gotten to the bottom of it: change.

Ever since I was a child, I have loved change. The changing from classroom to classroom, a new outfit, a quirky haircut. In fact, for many years of my life I would rearrange the furniture of my room every month or so. I've since stopped -- but not because my desire has dwindled, it's more of a time issue these days. I think that travel eases my itching for change. If only for a week or two, I get to try on a different life. How fantastic!

I also think that I'm still searching for something. I'm not really sure what it is -- maybe the perfect career, maybe the perfect house, maybe the perfect pastrami sandwich... but somehow I just feel like I'm missing something. So perhaps my love of travel is just one bit treasure hunt -- without a map.

Or an x in the sand for that matter.

Keep your eyes posted, I'll get a photo slideshow up eventually...

broadcast news.

2008-03-04T23:48:00.000-05:00

So, I don't know how many of you are CNN watchers but I just have to share a little ridiculousness that has been going on during the primaries. I present to you, Anderson Coopers Pizza Pie Chart.

I'm not sure what it is that prompts broadcast newsies to incorporate unnecessary bits of technology, but it's kind of cute. And cute in the sad pathetic sense, not the "aww baby" sense.

I'm so glad I'm in print.

lucky guess.

2008-03-02T23:20:00.001-05:00

So lately I've been freaking myself out a little bit.

When I'll be talking with somebody and they hesitate to think of what to say next, in my head I say almost exactly what comes out of their mouth after their hesitation is over.

When customers come into the ice cream store I work in, I can guess at about 75% accuracy rating what flavor they will choose.

When asked to guess a number out of 100 last week, I wrote down 12. But then had a second thought, so changed the 1 to a 4 making my number 42. Turns out I hit the nail on the head and guessed exactly the right number.

When I was playing "Guess Who" last weekend, I looked over the cheerful faces of the twenty some characters and would guess one before we'd even started asking questions. I was right 2 out of 3 times.

When I opened my fortune cookie this afternoon it said something like, "Luck follows you where you go, so go far."

In one instance any of the above incidents would seem normal. I'd chock it up to blind luck and move on. But there have been just so many in the past week that it is almost hard to avoid! I'm not the type to believe in the supernatural but hmm ....

I'll keep you posted if I hear voices of dead presidents or start walking through walls or something cool like that. *crosses fingers*

speeding bullet.

2008-02-27T14:45:00.000-05:00

Last night I had a nightmare.

I was driving in my car, with a barrage of police cars behind me -- lights flaring, sirens shrieking. Nervously I checked my rear view mirror. From the sky, you could see my little white car speeding ahead of at least a dozen police cars. Helicopters from the police department and news stations circled overhead, zooming in on my car and making speculations about my sanity.

Quick! I thought, turn around!

Grasping my steering wheel, my knuckles turned white. My teeth were clenched. My eyes squinting. With one swift movement I turned the wheel to the left, cutting my car across the grass median, leaving tire marks on the road. My tires squealed as I passed through onto the pavement on the other side of the road. Behind me, the grass median was torn from my quick maneuver.

I checked my mirrors. I had lost them. Yes, in my dream changing directions on a wide open interstate is enough to shake even the most diligent of police officers.

I decided to pull over and get off the road -- otherwise they might find me.

I found my way to a truck stop. Sketchy beyond belief. Men in red flannel shirts sat at electronic gambling machines while their trucks idled outside. I think I'll drive home, I thought. Surely the police won't look for me there...

When I left the truck stop, my car was gone -- along with my wallet, purse and cell phone. I was utterly stranded. I was a fugitive. I started to cry. And then I woke up.

-------

This all stems off a speeding ticket that I got in REAL life this past Friday. 80 and in a 65. Ouchies.

regret on credit.

2008-02-15T23:33:00.000-05:00

I hate making mistakes.

Particularly the kind where, had I thought for a few more moments, could have been avoided.

It's the noun in Latin that I declined as plural rather than singular, an embarrassing slip of the tongue in a conversation, a mispronounced word, calling someone by the wrong name... the silly things I do every day. Mostly the consequence is a few moments of "doh!" or "I hope they don't think I'm an idiot..." but the other day I started thinking about the bigger mistakes I've made in my life. What about the mistakes that involved weeks of wrong decisions -- a series of "doh's!" that only come to light in hindsight?

Looking around me at my peers, it seems that all of us have these streaks of stupidity. A relationship gone awry, a regretted kiss, a failure to stand up for ones self. Dotted among my many friendships, I have heard so many stories of regret. And -- just like nights at the movies, shopping sprees and electric bills -- these regrets are placed on credit ... left to be forgotten for now, but sure to resurface for payment later.

I say this because one of my greatest life regrets has just surfaced. After collecting interest, and simmering for a long while, it has come back to consume my hourly thoughts and nightly dreams. This time around I know I can't refile my regrets to the back of the cabinet. It's time to pay for my mistakes, confront some situations and say some apologies. A hard thing to do, for sure, but necessary this time around I think.

I tell myself that this is just the hard process to being a better person.

But it is also making me realize the attractive allure of denial!

the edwards effect.

2008-01-30T16:14:00.000-05:00

Word came this morning that John Edwards has dropped out of the Democratic race after his string of lack-luster third place showings. The news wasn't entirely shocking after I saw his subdued enthusiasm last week in South Carolina. Though at that point he was still running, a passion that once sparked his eyes had faded. He looked tired - defeated even. I'm sure he knew then what came to light this morning.

With Edwards out, the Democratic race has narrowed to two -- spare a Mike Gravel who might as well just end it. But now that Edwards is out, there is about 15% of the Democratic voters who are up for grabs. Fifteen percent is HUGE. Whichever candidate is able to capture Edwards loyalists will almost certainly ride a high tide to National Convention.

Though there are varying opinions on who will benefit from Edwards departure form the race, I am certain that Obama will come out with the upper hand.

In the Democratic party -- and really in America for that matter -- there are two types of people. Pro-Hillary and Anti-Hillary. She is a very polarizing candidate. Up to this point, Anti-Hillary Democratic voters have been split between Obama and Edwards.

Though Edwards and Clinton have closely aligned platforms, I do not have faith in the intelligence of American voters. We too often are caught up in personality to see what each candidate stands for. So though Edwards supports might be most satisfied with Clinton in office, I feel the majority of them will support Obama.

We'll just have to see what happens on Super-Duper Tuesday.

I should probably make it known that I am currently not supporting any candidate. Firstly, because I vote in the North Carolina primary, and by the time it's my turn to cast a ballot the Magic Number will long have been reached. Secondly, because these candidates are the same. If you really sit down and look at Obama and Clinton, it is hard to find any hardline differences between them. And what's more -- if you throw McCain into the mix, things are even more blurry. Aside from his deplorable stance on the Iraq war, he's not too far off from his liberal enemies. And if you look into his past, you can get a feel for what he REALLY believes -- not just the platform he's running on to make it through the Republican nomination.

lost passport.

2008-01-25T09:45:00.001-05:00

I lost my passport the night before my flight to London.

I have one file that I always keep it in. It's always been there. It's a special file in my filing cabinet that says, "Important." My social secuirty card, health insurance, SAT scores and passport all cuddle closely within protective casing.

But last night, just minutes before I was planning to leave for the first leg of my trip to Europe, I pull out my files and it's gone.

Hmm... I think. I must have missed it, and search through the file again. Perhaps I put it in a different pile? nope. Perhaps the last time I had it out it slipped off my bed? nope. Perhaps last time I took a shower I thought it might be nice to have my passport with me? nope.

I looked literally everywhere in my house. I opened each book. Went through each pocket. Every single bag. I did not sleep last night because I was looking. praying. crying.

Sometime this morning I conceded that it was truly gone. Evaporated from time and space into an abyss of nothingness -- my passport is just gone. I canelled my flight. Wiped my eyes. And now plan to spend the rest of the day moping around and feeling genuinely sorry for myself.

As a person who NEVER loses things -- especially important documents -- I don't understand how people can live like this.

Whenever I do lose things, I always wish I had one of those "missing key" alarms where I could just press a button and the missing item will start lighting up and making noise. I think I'll install a few of those on all of my most important things soon.

I feel nauseated. I really think my heart is broken over having to miss this trip.

Guess I'll have to reschedule for March.

i want cake.

2008-01-23T22:55:00.000-05:00

So I've been on this diet.

I know, I know. Diets are miserable, detestable, awful things. But, I've decided that I cannot simply work out and be slim. I must do this thing that I like to call torture.

Instead of reaching for juice, I grab water. Instead of sandwich, I choose salad. Instead of chocolate cake, frozen grapes. It's all really fun and games, let me tell you.

Basically I'm starving.

article: myrtle beach

2008-01-21T23:19:00.000-05:00

A commentary piece for The Pendulum after the Democratic debates.

MYRTLE BEACH, S.C. – The stakes are high in South Carolina for the Democratic Presidential candidates who are jockeying to win the support of 54 delegates when the state holds its Democratic primary this Saturday. Events surrounding the Martin Luther King holiday set an appropriate stage to frame one of the issues at the core of capturing South Carolina – race. Over half of Democratic voters in the state are black and each candidate has been on the move to woo black voters during the past few weeks.

Hillary Clinton

A narrow win in Nevada puts Clinton on the upswing as she heads into South Carolina, but her diminished support among the black voters could throw a wrench into her plans. To add insult to injury, Bill Clinton’s recent criticism of Obama has attracted negative attention from party loyalists who are more concerned about getting a Democrat in office than which candidate they get in office. And there’s more bad news from Clinton. An opinion poll released by CNN/Opinion Research Corp. showed that Americans would be more supportive of a black president than a female president – not great news for those who are focused on who can win a general election.

The light in the Clinton campaign is that she still leads in national polls. Her marriage to former President Bill Clinton may help her with the black vote in South Carolina, but she is currently projected to come in second. During the debate on Monday Clinton was debating for votes in Florida and on ‘Super Tuesday,’ as opposed to South Carolina. Her time was spent mostly on the offense, attacking Obama on nearly every issue that was brought up.

Clinton targeted the partisan voters by taking several jabs at President George W. Bush. She also sold her experience in politics saying that she’s been taking fire from Republicans for 16 years, and is the most equipped to go head to head with a Republican candidate – namely John McCain. But will her polarizing nature cause Democrats to jump ship and vote Republican? Some wonder.

John Edwards

John Edwards is a South Carolina native who was able to take the state with 45 percent of the primary vote when he first ran for President in 2004. A win this Saturday could put Edwards back up with Clinton and Obama, but a loss will almost certainly signal the beginning of end of his campaign. He’s said he’ll stay in through Convention in August – but really, what else does he have to do?

Edwards was more or less an afterthought when pitted against the flame throwing between Obama and Clinton at the CNN debate. When he would inject on occasion it was genuinely a breath of fresh air from the negativity that bogged the other two. He even asked “Are there three people in this debate, not two?” His attempts to engage Clinton and Obama often only added fuel to the fire between the other two and left him out in the cold, out of the camera’s view and, possibly, out of the minds of the voters.

Then again, his ability to remove himself from the arguing could pay off for voters who are turned off by the animosity between Clinton and Obama. Edwards language was clearly orchestrated to attract the partisan voters, the most likely primary voters. His language was also genuinely positive. When he did talk negative, he was almost gentle, qualifying his responses to soften the blow.

Pundits have already started arguing about who would benefit if Edwards dropped out of the race. Some say that the Democratic party is split into two camps – those for Clinton and those against Clinton – and that Obama would take Edwards supporters. Others suggest that Edwards supporters may would Truly, it’s probably a crap-shoot. But for now, Edwards is in and fighting. A strong showing in South Carolina could propel him back into the limelight.

Barack Obama

Obama has gone far to rally the support of black South Carolinians, expending a lot of energy and money in the palmetto state. Though initially Clinton captured the black vote, recent polls have shown that Obama’s strong showing in Iowa proved his chances to win with white America. This has bolstered his support among black voters who now have faith he can win. Recent polls released by the CNN/Opinion Research Corp. show that 60 percent of South Carolinian black voters plan to vote for Obama, with 31 percent supporting Clinton.

The bad news for Obama is that he hasn’t won a primary since Iowa. Winning South Carolina is important for him to keep up with Clinton who may have the upper hand in delegate heavy Florida. He has also made no secret of his desire to reach out to Republican voters, a move that is expected during the general election but can be risky during the primaries. His praise of Republican darling-child Ronald Reagan was heavily criticized during the debate by Clinton.

Obama’s showing at the debate was a tango of attack and defense with Clinton. Through all the arguing it was hard to hear any new ideas. Instead it was a rehashing of what we’ve heard time and time again. However, his ability to defend himself was unlike we’ve seen in any debate before which may have been exactly what the voters wanted to hear. The audience was clearly behind Obama, laughing at his quips at Clinton and exploding in applause after his bolder statements.

iowa-who.

2008-01-03T21:56:00.001-05:00

Rarely is it the case that one of the most exciting events of the year comes 3 days after New Years Eve. A state that Americans pay little attention to for four years becomes the center of the news cycle as the politically minded watch to see how 200,000 cattle farmers in Iowa will play one of the biggest roles in choosing the next American president. It's a night like Halloween or Christmas -- where an underlying electric current rides through the air.

As of 10:21 in Iowa:

Obama - 37%
Edwards - 30%
Clinton - 29%

Huckabee - 34%
Romney - 25%
Thompson - 14%
McCain - 13%
Paul - 10%

I am absolutely amazed.

Clinton, who has long been the white horse in the eyes of bloggers and newspapers, stumbles. Analysts say that it is because of the high voter turn-out which likely indicated more younger voters (aka, more Obama and Edwards supporters.)

Edwards, who is one of the most powerful Democratic speakers and who has thrown A LOT of resources into Iowa, shines. Second place looks good. But critics wonder if he can turn the votes out in New Hampshire and South Carolina, where he hasn't been working as hard.

Obama, who has been perceived as neck and neck with Clinton, TAKES. THE. CAKE. He surprised many by winning a collection of three counties in Western Iowa where the black population is practically nil.

Huckabee seemed to come out of nowhere to have done so well. I suppose it’s no surprise that appealing to the party base paid off. McCain, take note!

Giuliani, who I thought would at least turn some sort of support in Iowa had ... none. I guess campaigning really is the make or break to most voters. Political scientists everywhere rejoice at a solidified job security.

49 more states to go. This is going to be an awesome spring.

editor meets sunrise.

2007-12-06T10:36:00.000-05:00

I woke up in the middle of the night last night in a panic. As the newly appointed editor-in-chief for The Pendulum I have spent the past week making plans for the paper ... developing my vision. I want a better Web site, a more dedicated staff, a better set of reporters, a better sense of ownership among all, to add eight pages to our print product, daily online updates, to start incorporating video and audio elements, to cover more local, state and national news, intramural sports, movie times, editorial cartooning.

Whew!

But for some reason around 5 a.m. last night I stirred in my sleep. What if all my ideas and dreams for what the paper can be don't work out? What if my selected staff members aren't as enthusiastic and dedicated as I am? What if I spend my entire year as editor disappointing myself and others?

I stayed awake, staring at my ceiling until my alarm went off around 7:30.

At that point I gave up entirely on falling back asleep and began my morning routine of e-mail checking and teeth brushing. (In that order usually. I quite obviously put communication before my own hygienic care.) Clicking through my favorite news Web sites gave me an update on all the latest from our gaggle of presidential hopefuls. As I skimmed through Mitt Romney's speech about religion I realized that my situation could always be worse. I could be a newly appointed president.

If I'm stressed about letting people down as a newspaper editor, I can't fathom the weight of the world on our president. Clearly, all these people must be clinically insane.

return call.

2007-12-03T01:13:00.000-05:00

Eight months is as long as I'll make it

From the time I left London in May to when I plan to return for my first visit in January. It's amazing to me that eight months has lapsed when I already feel years away from all that I experienced there. I am eager to return and see old aquaintences -- who really, in the context of time, can hardly be called old friends at all. A year ago, I didn't even know them.

Yet somehow I feel like my $500 flight has afforded me a trip into my past. I dream of the familiar smells of the Warwick Avenue tube stop and the hussle bussle of black-clad parliamentarians around Westminster. For the little time I spent there, and for how shortly ago it was, I feel oddly like I'm going back to high school ... a place where I spent years of my life, a long long time ago ... or again, so it seems.

My time in the UK was a whirlwind experience. Removed from my culture and friends I was a different person. Part of me is worried that when I go back, everything will have changed. Part of me is worried that when I go back, everything will still be the same.

I suppose it will just be best to go into my return trip without any expectations. I'll just soak it up as another experience to add to the dusty collection on my internal London shelf. Something to sit among the ticket stubs to Cabaret and stolen Guiness pint glasses from the pub, which I've since lost -- but miss dearly.

article: boys and academia.

2007-12-03T01:03:00.001-05:00

Below is a story set to appear in The Pendulum on Dec. 5th. It was a fun piece to write, very interesting. It's more of an example of magazine writing I suppose. Kind of Time-esque. Sorry for the short commentary but it's exam time here at Elon. Expect more posts later this month!

The Male Crisis in Academia

Take a look at any elementary school classroom and you are bound to see numbers.

Not just the numbers that hang on the wall, displaying the nuances of multiplication and long division, but also the invisible numbers that label each child. Standardized test have flooded the education system with data that shadows a student from their entry in kindergarten through their high school graduation.

Mostly, the numbers tell positive stories of achievement and growth. But one pattern is stressing educators at all levels – the boys are falling behind. At nearly every benchmark between elementary and high school, males are losing ground to their female peers.

It starts as early as elementary school, when boys are twice as likely to be diagnosed with a learning disability. End of grade testing also doesn’t bode well for boys – who are nationally more likely to fail a standardized test.

“We have seen boys in particular have a disconnect with school,” said Christopher Poston, assistant principal at Elon Elementary School. “I’d say some is behavioral and some is academic.”

Fifth grade reading test scores from Elon Elementary reveal that one out of ten boys failed to meet reading proficiency. The girls overall faired better, with fewer than one out of twenty falling short in reading.

The math scores, where males have traditionally scored better, also reveal that females are scoring higher, though the difference is much smaller.

Poston joins many educators studying whether biological factors account for the differences between the genders. “Females are more ritualistically compliant to sit down and read. Males don’t have that ritualistic compliant piece,” he said. “They question why they have to read this book. They are pushing against the grain a little bit more.”

Male resistance may be linked to a curriculum built to please feminine tastes. Required reading books like “Where the Red Fern Grows” and “Shiloh” appeal to young girls, but leave the boys less interested.

“Let’s start them reading by getting them to read an NBA magazine,” Poston suggested. “We give them such a narrow playing field [with the required reading books.] We need to make sure we capture their interests.”

The Male-Female Divide in College Admissions
Once boys begin to lag behind in elementary school, the trend continues through high school graduation, and even into college.

Some of the most striking evidence can be found on college campuses everywhere. After a century of male dominated college attendance rates, females have now moved into the majority, making up 56 percent of college attendees. Elon’s 60-40 female-male distribution is an echo of what is facing universities all across America.

“There’s been a lot of talk about this issue through admissions circles,” said Vice President of Admissions Susan Klopman. “But nobody has a very good explanation of why.” Klopman suggested that a shift in how men are portrayed in the media may be part of the reason.

“We’re sending messages that devalue intellectual endeavors,” said Klopman. She cited advertising that features “macho, dumb men” stereotypes and “stupid humor,” as examples.

The entire college application process, it turns out, may be another reason that fewer men are showing up in the classroom. Many colleges will not send admissions information to students unless the student contacts the school first – a move that women might be more comfortable making, Klopman said.

“It takes time, thought and planning to apply to a college,” she said. “When it comes to planning a campus visit or sitting in on a college class, men just don’t have the emotional investment in a college that women do.”

Bringing Males to College Classrooms
There is one place, however, where males have consistently outshined females – on the SAT Reasoning Test. Take for example the CollegeBoard data for the senior class of 2007. The average critical reading score for males was 504, while the average female scored 502. The math scores are further stratified, with men averaging 533 and women 499.

While the men of the class of 2007 outscored the women on the SAT, they recorded a significantly lower grade point average, with women receiving an average of 3.40 over the male 3.24.

With this in mind, Towson University launched a program in 2005 aimed at accepting applicants who had high SAT scores but lower grades. Like Elon, Towson was struggling with a 40 percent male student body, and hoped the new program would bolster the number of males on campus.

They accepted students who had GPAs around 2.8, but who held SAT scores about 100 points higher than the average Towson student.

Initially the program appeared a success; many more male students were enrolling at Towson than before. But before long, problems began to emerge. A large number of students admitted through this program either left the college or dropped out.

“The bottom line is, our retention rate in the program is not as high as our overall freshmen retention rate," Deborah Leather, Towson associate provost, told the Baltimore Sun. “Basically, we are proving what has already been known, which is that grade point average is a better predictor of student success than SAT scores."

Towson scrapped the program in 2007.

Other colleges, including Elon, are using gender-specific marketing to attract more male attendants. For example, instead of the full admissions letter that Klopman might write to a female applicant, she tries to limit her letters to men to 10 short sentences.

Elon has also taken steps to make campus more guy-friendly. The club sport fields were built to encourage a stronger club sports program, something that male applicant’s value. Varsity Grille was given a sports theme for the same reason.

“We’re trying to pay attention to our male students,” said Klopman.

Finding Broader Solutions
Getting males interested in school again may be the first step to fixing the disparity between males and females, but others are calling for more. Michael Thompson, co-author of “Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys” suggested shifting the cultural expectations of how boys should act.

“Girl behavior becomes the gold standard,” Thompson writes. “Boys are being treated like defective girls.”

As schools cut recess time and toughen academic requirements, Thompson worries that boys might be left behind entirely.

“Because of their higher activity level, boys are likely to get into more trouble than girls,” Thompson told PBS. “And they are not given enough opportunities to move around — both in actual physical activity and in how they learn — because they spend too much time sitting and not enough time learning by doing, making and building things.”

Many educators are calling on schools to adopt curriculums that will help boys learn in a way that is more conducive to how they are genetically built. More physical activities, boy-friendly books and a new approach to discipline may be the beginning of the solution.

Klopman, Thompson and Poston all agree that bringing boys to equal footing with girls will need to be a culture-wide shift in expectation. Until then, the numbers might continue to tell the grim tale of how educators are losing the battle with boys.

article: scott nelson

2007-11-08T00:29:00.000-05:00

Assistant dean of students resigns
Scott Nelson leaves after allegations of inappropriate conduct

Olivia Hubert-Allen, News Editor

Scott Nelson, assistant dean of students and director of judicial affairs, resigned unexpectedly effective immediately on Oct. 30.

The resignation came two days after Homecoming festivities, when Nelson was accused of engaging in behavior not condoned by the faculty handbook.

Nelson, who has spent seven years supervising punishments given to students for problem behavior, including drinking violations, resigned after drinking with students during the tailgating in the Harper Center Lot.

Though it is typically the university’s policy not to discuss personal matters of its employees, Nelson gave Smith Jackson, vice president of student life, consent to release a statement about the situation.

“Early last week I received several reports concerning Dean Nelson,” Jackson said in a prepared statement. “The reports indicated Dean Nelson had participated with some alumni and students in consuming alcohol in the tailgating area, interacted inappropriately with students, and did not shut down the tailgating area during the football game [which was his responsibility].”

The Elon University Staff Manual states that “being intoxicated or under the influence of controlled substances while at work or on University business” is considered an unacceptable activity.

In a statement made by three female students involved in the incident and evidence gathered by The Pendulum, the inappropriate behavior also included, “unwelcome sexual advances, request for sexual favors and other physically expressive behavior of a sexual nature,” as outlined in the staff manual.

The students’ statement read in part: “Nelson’s behavior was concerning and upsetting. We want students to know what happened so that in the future, others will come forward if a similar situation occurs.”

Nelson admitted to acting unprofessionally during tailgating and takes full responsibility for drinking with students.

“I drank way too much and was way too casual,” says Nelson. “I don’t remember much really.”

He had little recollection of any specific incidents that may have followed.

“I’ve never done anything with students that way,” Nelson said. “Maybe I just came across a little too warm. I never wanted anything from a student in that way.”

He says he resigned because he knows he couldn’t expect students to respect him as a judicial officer if he had violated the regulations his office enforces.

“I apologize to staff, deans and students,” Nelson says. “I hope they learn from my poor example. I tried to be a mentor and was the exact opposite.”

Nelson spent the week in South Carolina with his family.

Whitney Pack has temporarily taken Nelson’s responsibilities, and has become chief justice of judicial affairs. A search will be conducted in the future to find a new director of judicial affairs.

Brittany Smith, Kaitlin Ugolik, Justin Hite and Leigh Ann Vanscoy contributed to this story.

eye of the steam valve.

2007-10-11T15:24:00.000-04:00

I'm beginning to reach a breaking point. My inability to say 'no' to commitments has now begun to creep its way into affecting my sleep cycle, eating habits, workout habits and oh yeah... my social existence. I ran into a friend today on my way across campus who I used to spend a lot of time with. "I thought you were still abroad," he said. "You look tired."

No. I'm here. And thanks. I am tired.

I don't know if I am starting to feel the early signs of "slowing down" with age OR if I have just finally bitten off so much, that not only am I unable to chew -- but I'm having trouble breathing too. cough cough.

I know New Years resolutions are miles away from now, but during moments of downtime I fantasize about a reduced workload that a strict resolution might bring. Simple things like being able to cook myself a proper meal, or sneak in an hour with my running shoes and iPod seem like luxuries that I will never be able to afford.

I've convinced myself that if I don't do a million things day that I will not be a successful person in life. Sure, there's some correlation. But if I am starting to wince at my quality of life because of it, maybe success isn't really worth it after all. Can I be happy being average? Part of me hopes so.

I've got two months left until the end of the hardest semester I've experienced to date. To make matters worse, I came into the hardest semester after having basked in the easiest. London was leagues short of academically challenging -- to be honest, academia was more of a nuisance getting in my way of fully capturing the city. Oh to be back again.

But yes. Two months left of sprinting. Then I think I might settle down and jog for a while.

Note to self this January 1st: chill out.

article: statistics matter.

2007-10-11T12:49:00.001-04:00

I'm going to start posting some of the articles that I have been busy writing for class/The Pendulum/University Relations. Below is an exercise in writing about statistics.

Elon competes with flagship public colleges

ELON—The number of students from North Carolina who attend Elon University has hovered around 30 percent for the past ten years. Now, higher standards for admission are threatening to reduce the number of students coming from the Tar Heel State.

“North Carolina enrollment is very important to us,” said Greg Zaiser, dean of admissions at Elon. “Students from the state receive the North Carolina Legislative Tuition Grant. That money can be channeled into the financial aid budget, which can then be allocated across the board.”

These financial incentives encourage Elon to admit a high number of in-state students, but Zaiser explains that there is difficulty getting high school students from North Carolina to consider Elon. North Carolina’s well-established public university system boasts such academic heavyweights as North Carolina State University and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

“Coming from high school, Chapel Hill was my top choice,” said Sean Flynn, a junior at Elon from Raleigh, N.C. “Carolina just has a name in this state that Elon hasn’t established yet. I was nervous to tell my friends about attending Elon since they didn’t recognize the name.”

Other North Carolina high school students are turned away from Elon because of tuition disparities that make public schools more attractive. In-state tuition for UNC-Chapel Hill costs $5,300, while Elon’s in-state tuition rate is three and half times more at $20,200.

“It’s usually the North Carolina family who makes the comment about Elon being outrageously expensive because we do have the flagship public school system,” Zaiser said. “At this point we’re really looking at the same student.”

In a survey distributed to students that Elon accepted for admission but did not enroll, one out of 11 respondents indicated enrollment at UNC-Chapel Hill instead, making the school Elon’s top competitor.

In the past, Elon’s student “market” was comprised of students who would not be competitive candidates for admission at UNC-Chapel Hill or NC State. In the past five years the standards for admission to Elon have been rising beyond expectation, placing the university in closer competition with the top public schools.

In the demanding industry of higher education new admissions standards mean a new strategy. Elon’s is simple and direct: money.

Increased presidential and fellows scholarships are aimed to put Elon on equal footing with the less-expensive public schools, said Zaiser. The university is also in the middle of a capital campaign that is focused on raising money for the endowment, which should lessen the school’s dependence on tuition increases in the future.

Money, however, can only do so much. To remain a viable option for North Carolina students, Elon will need to keep standards for admission from competing directly with NC State and UNC-Chapel Hill. Though the admissions office has no plans for intentional degradation of standards, they are monitoring the situation with caution.

“We may reach a point at which we need to stop increasing the admissions standards,” said Zaiser. “We would be foolish to leave the market we’re in. We’re not trying to be a Duke or a Davidson. We know who our students are and which students we want.”

inspired by watergate.

2007-10-07T22:52:00.000-04:00

On June 17, 1972 five men broke into the Democratic National Committee Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Two young reporters – Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein – with meager reputations who worked at the city desk of The Washington Post were assigned to the story, which was expected to be nothing more than a blip on the radar.

“I thought to myself … this is where they keep the yard signs! Why would anybody break into a campaign office,” said Bob Schieffer, as he reflected on his first impressions of the story.

Soon, however, opinions changed as the biggest known cover-up in Presidential History was revealed. Woodward and Bernstein were the driving force – able to get to the bottom of the truth by prodding sources for more and more information. As the dust settled, America learned that President Nixon and his staff had taken part in a slew of illegal activity that included campaign fraud, espionage, wire tapping, money laundering and break-ins.

Nixon, sensing his impending doom, resigned.

It’s stories like these that inspire journalists today to push boundaries, ask tough questions and be critical of our administration. While at the SPJ Convention this afternoon we listened in on a panel discussion between journalistic heavyweights Bob Schieffer, Ben Bradlee, Bob Woodward, Carl Bernstein, Daniel Shorr and Alicia Shepard.

The group reflected on their experiences during the Watergate Scandal with humor and nostalgia. They spoke in depth about from the first moments that they heard about the break-in at The Watergate to the making of All The Presidents Men years later. What was most interesting though, was the insight they shared about how the Watergate scandal has changed the face of journalism.

“Watergate taught us that there could be conspiracy in the government,” said Dan Shorr. “We don’t assume that a President, or vice president, or secretary are telling us the truth anymore.”

Though this may seem a sad regression, I think it is probably good that a case like this alerted journalists to the darker side of politics. Think of all that we might have missed if we hadn’t been watching the government closely. I can’t even imagine what they might have gotten away with.

The mood lightened when Woodward reflected on the making of the movie All The Presidents Men. He explained how actor Jason Robards was being considered for Ben Bradlee’s part in the movie. They gave him a script and had him look over it.

He returned the next day saying “I can’t play this part! This guy only says one thing – “Where’s the fucking story!”

“Well,” the movie exec’s replied, “That’s what an executive editor does! We need you to find 15 interesting, creative ways to say ‘Where’s the fucking story?”

Sure enough, Robards played the part and ended up winning and Oscar.

I think I may have found a new catchphrase for myself at The Pendulum.

tax appreciation.

2007-09-13T20:05:00.000-04:00

So far this year, I have paid $834 in income taxes. Yes, to many adults this number is probably laughable next to the thousands they pay – but if you put it into perspective for a moment $834 seems no small fare. To a college student, $834 can be three months of food. Two and a half car payments. Enough beer money to last years (perhaps for others only months…). It’s couple month’s rent. A semester worth of books. Two speeding tickets. Or – my favorite – a carefully planned five-day trip to California, London, Southern France or Spain.

However, after two hours in my economics class today, I have begun to think about that $834 a little bit differently. We’ve been discussing personal gain versus social cost. Though I’ve always found myself to be liberal leaning, when it came to taxes I’ve been stumped. It’s hard not to think of all the things I could have if I were allowed to keep the money that Uncle Sam takes from me each month. But after thinking on it for a bit, I’ve found a new way to appreciate taxes. Instead of thinking what I am losing, I am going to now think of what I am gaining…

Roads to carry me all across the country. 13 years of free primary and secondary school. Police officers that keep me safe. Electricity at the DMV, city hall and in the schools. Lawyers to represent the poor in court. The military that continues a disheartening war that is less supported by the hour… My $834 goes towards most of the things that I take for granted.

I’ve wished my cynicism away for the day. For once in a long while, the glass is half full. If having a life of order and society that is – relatively – peaceful costs merely $834. Then I guess I’m getting my money’s worth.

audio pilgrimage.

2007-08-10T16:00:00.001-04:00

Squinting my eyes to make out the monochrome shape of the car in front of me is not usually my idea of an ideal way to spend a Thursday afternoon. In fact, spending a half-hour in a torrential downpour on I-95 (oh it gets worse…) through Northern Virginia sounds like an episode worthy of an anxiety attack. And in most cases it probably would have been but yesterday was clearly an oddity. Somehow I found a sense of peace among the large drops of water that pelted my car, breaking their round form on my windshield with a loud “snap.”

The thunderstorm was vibrant, providing spectacular bolts of lighting that would work their way through the sky like delicate winding capillaries. Every bright flash warned me for the deafening cracking sound which was always soon to follow.

I was driving home from visiting my family in Bethlehem, Penn., a conflicted city that is trying to find community among rich college students, underpaid Puerto Ricans and unemployed steel workers. To be honest, it's a lot like Burlington, only with Hispanics and mill workers respectively. The trip was short, but since it marked my first long-distance solo road trip, it was one to remember.

One thing that I reconnected with during my trip was my music collection. To be honest, I am often times ashamed out out of touch I am with music. I never devote time to finding new artists or even given my good ole stand-bys a listen. I mostly tune into NPR in hopes they will make sense of the chaotic news cycle. But on this trip I was armed with something that I have never had before -- proper car speakers.

In my last car, affectionately know as Miss Noxzema (or Noxie for short), had blown speakers that would buzz if a single decimal of bass was in the audio. It isn't until you lose the ability to have bass that you realize how much all music depends on it. :/ So my options were always NPR or James Taylor. Now I love James, don't get me wrong, but hours and hours and hours of James just gets old (As do the repeating news segments on NPR.) BUT on this trip, in my new car, I was free to explore the more soulful parts of my music collection -- Bob Dylan, Etta James, Miles Davis, Just Jack, Justice... mmm ... really anything that skewed from beach music was a relief.

I think that 7 hours of music was enough to pull me out of my dry spell. As soon as I got home I began searching for something new ... something jazzy ... something with some bass! I'm already excited about the musical experience during my next road trip.

internal nesting.

2007-08-02T00:17:00.000-04:00

I start this new chapter of my life just like I started my last one -- moving boxes. As I sift through old letters, forgotten books and tattered clothing I am constantly reminded of the life I left behind to cross the Atlantic just six months ago. It's odd how easily things can be forgotten when you don't see them on a daily basis.

My summer has been consumed with finding places for things. Moving into a new house has given me the ongoing challenge at interior decoratioin -- where does this lamp belong? Does the bookshelf look better next to the bed or the closet? However, I have also been busy finding places in my life for things that I've let myself exclude. Familiar friends, spirituality, family and work were all things that I snuck onto the back burner while in London. As I come back to my life here, I admit that I am struggle to make these things a part of my daily routine again.

What is most interesting, is that part of me doesn't want to bring these things into the forefront of my life once again. Being in London gave me an opportunity to reinvent myself, or rather discover who I really might be. Instead of keeping up appearences and meeting expectations I had the freedom to be entirely who I wanted to be from moment to moment.

That is a freedom that will be hard to give up.

But then again, maybe I don't have to...

that bitter burning feeling.

2007-05-22T17:37:00.000-04:00

The eight hour flight back from London cannot be described with any other word than buzzing. I was determined not to be sad and spend my flight fueling my breaking heart with thoughts or sad music. Somehow I knew if I stopped for too long I would drain myself emotionally, mentally and physically, and I just wasn't ready for that. Instead I gorged myself on mindless movies, celebrity gossip and cheery music (things I normally loathe, do mind.) When I found myself watching a Will Farrell movie, I knew I had truly hit a low point in my desperation to avoid facing the truth. I was going home.

As I made my way toward U.S. Customs I broke. Feeling the early signs of a cry coming on, I headed for the handicapped bathroom where I sat on the floor of the stall and tried to collect myself.

Everything will be okay. This has been a wonderful experience. There is so much for you here in America. You are glad to be back.

It didn't really matter what I told myself, or even what I may have felt because the bitter reality that my journey is over cannot be changed. The first feeling that comes to me -- sadly -- is regret. Leaving a place and a life that I loved, yet will never be able to recapture has me feeling a tremendous sense of loss. Having felt so vibrant in London, I fear what awaits me in my little life in North Carolina. Good friends and family, is for certain, but beyond that I am not coming home to very much.

So here is where the challenge begins. I must turn myself around, grow myself more opportunities, and face new challenges. Life is not about where you are, but what you create around you.

Happiness is not an island in the rain. (Though wouldn't it be nice if it was that simple.)

t-shirts and memories.

2007-05-06T12:51:00.000-04:00

I remember sitting on the floor not too long ago, resting my chin on my hands as I stared at the most enormous collection of matter known to man. A massive collage of clothing, shoes, toiletries and computer parts that I deemed necessary for survival were lumped into a pile that would make Olympic hurdlers quiver. How would I ever cram all of these things into my megar duffel bag and get it a quarter of a way around the globe? People suggested rolling my t-shirts and sweaters, vacume sealing everything in space-age looking bags and (my favorite) "just cramming things in carelessly." I eventually conceeded, packing a quarter of the things in my pile and sending the rest off to live in a stuffy storage unit in East Burlington.

My bags were tight, zipper-bulging nuggets of packing perfection. Socks were stuffed into shoes. Computer wires were wound tight. Textbooks nessled in the core of the bag to ensure a zen-like sense of balance. In short, my bag was sheer parcel bliss.

This morning, I began my journey home by packing all of my bags. With every item placed into my bag, I felt a bit of closure with leaving.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that making my return trip to the United States, I was packing a lot more--and I'm not just talking about the excess amounts of Swiss Chocolate and shoes from Chockers that I will probably fail to mention to U.S. Customs. With every item I tucked deep into my red suitcase went a memory from my time in London.

My black dress pants reminded me of my first day at my internship with the Liberal Democrats, nervous yet eager to get acclimated quickly. A battered pair of running shoes were my afternoon runs through Regents Park which often degenerated into sitting under a willow tree watching the ducks race the paddle boats. A festive tank top took me to evenings at the pub, enjoying glasses of red wine over conversations with the locals.

The list goes on and on, with practically everything I own having a story attached. Though it was sad to be packing these things, it was refreshing to realize how many experiences I will be taking back with me. I go home a different person than I was when I came. I go home having lived a different life, if only for a few months. I go home with thousands of stories, thousands of lessons learned. I go home with the weight of a thousand memories.

Now, I am glad to have gained all this, but I do have one concern. However will I fit it all into my checked luggage?

Perhaps rolling ... or vacume sealing.

my dozen bed circus.

2007-04-27T08:20:00.000-04:00

As you may have noticed, I have been feeling a bit down about my pending departure from the United Kingdom. Sometime between chocolate rum milkshakes, walks along the south bank, late night crepe making and political press releases I've started feeling at home in London. A city that once left me awe-struck and overwhelmed is now a source of comfort and familiarity.

On my recent trip to Dublin, I started to think about what makes a home. The obvious answer would be something along the lines of: several hundred nails, 400 feet of lumber, 15 packs of insulation, 50,000 bricks and a dozen sheets of drywall. Or, if you are a nomad like myself it gets quite simple: a bed. My recent sense of home, however (hold on for a bit of something sappy), is shaped by something a little more emotional.

The old saying, "Home is where the heart is," seemed to stick pervasively with me during much of my trip to Dublin. Though I've always found this saying to be true, I struggle with some of the logistical ramifications.

At the moment, I feel my heart is a bit all over the place. A touch is still shovelling snow in New York, while some is playing with the puppy in Pennsylvania. Some is being studious in an Elon editing lab, while other bits are baking cookie's at the Padgett's. My heart in is grilling out at Sam's and taking evening strolls across the Millennium Bridge. And a new addition, at 29 Clifton Gardens, has my heart sitting at night on the cold balcony looking out into the darkened garden, wide-eyed as I try to make out the shapes of the flowers next door.

The more I thought about where my homes were, the more I ceased to think about actual locations, but rather the people who I associate with being there. Indeed, I soon realized that I don't actually have any physical homes, but rather a collection of friends and family who make me feel the comfort and familiarity of a home.

Dublin was a chance to spend time with two of my favourite people in the world. The trip helped me to see that when I leave London next month I am not leaving a new home, but rather leaving the people who make me feel at home here. When I arrive in New York on May 18th I shouldn't feel a sense of loss, but rather one of gain. The stinging disappointment in leaving London only shows how many have had an impact on me while I've been here.

With all these new homes I am a little overwhelmed. It is so wonderful to love so many people but however can I afford the rent?

*Photograph taken in the park in Dublin. From left, Bethany, Myself and Ryan. I love our faces as we struggle to look up towards the bright sky.

blairry vision.

2007-04-26T16:48:00.000-04:00

I threw a pebble into the ocean and it created waves.

Yesterday, a dossier which I helped the Liberal Democrats research and put together was released to the press. It contained examples of unofficial briefings from Whitehall and Westminster related to anti-terror cases which were premature or inaccurate and potentially compromised investigations. (okay, so I may have copied that line from the press release) When we released it, we weren’t really sure how much attention it would get. Luckily … it caught.

Sky News showed one of their broadcast journalists waving around my dossier in front of Parliament. A while later, Ming Campbell, the LibDem party leader called upon the Government to conduct a formal investigation into the matter. Tony Blair, of course, had to respond – saying no, naturally. Oh well. But all because of my little dossier!

It is really easy to become jaded in a field like political journalism. It is a field awash with sceptics who have been in the business for far too long. They will break your heart by telling you that nothing you write will ever mean anything—either the government is too corrupt, or the public too disinterested. I may be too optimistic—or just too naïveté—but I have faith that neither is the case.

Though I can’t claim to have made a surmountable impact yet, causing a blip in the news cycle somehow gives me hope. With some polishing, a few years experience, a smarter wardrobe and sharper mind … maybe then I could really cause a ruckus.

One can only dream. But until then, I'll gladly take what I can get.

*Photograph taken in Brighton, England. Spying on children isn't creepy - it's fun!

envying elephants.

2007-04-17T17:19:00.000-04:00

It is a sad day when you realize that the end of something is in sight. When I arrived here in late January it felt like I would have a lifetime in London before I would need to pack up my belongings and make my way back to America. But now, as I book a flight home, I can't help but feel as though I have been cheated out of time here. Why is it that time moves too quickly when you want it to slow down, yet when you're desperate for it to pass, it inches along? If every moment is the same length, then how do some feel so long, while others are too short to even be noticed?

My moments here are often worth twice as much as they are at home. Every passing second holds something new, a great potential. However, instead of cherishing the moments for what they are, I find myself desperately trying to slow each moment down. "Remember that landscape. Remember this smell. Remember that smile," I think to myself. I gorge myself on the details, like somehow if I commit every moment to memory, it will be everlasting. Maybe I will be able to relive every moment a million times in my memory. Perhaps then I will slow time down.

But even I know that the best of memories fade. A time will probably come when that landscape seems unfamiliar... the smell distant ... the smile new.

Yet, resilient as I am, that only makes me want to remember more.

I am hopeless.

return of the mu'umu'u.

2007-04-15T18:33:00.000-04:00

I probably shouldn't even get started on style, but while living in London it is hard not to get angry about. Though I am usually a supporter of fashion, lately I have grown jaded with "style." I don't know how things are progressing on the other side of the pond, but here big, baggy and shapeless are about as hot as a black leather car seat after 3 hours in an unshaded parking lot -- in July. Yowza.

Are any of you familiar with a muʻumuʻu (or as it is often misspelled, muumuu)? For those of you lucky enough not to be ... it is a loose Hawaiian dress that hangs straight down from the shoulders. Brilliantly colored patterns adorn these hideous things which can usually only be found on genuinely unattractive people. (Excuse me for being harsh, but I only speak the truth.) Since there is no constraint around the waist or hips, they are popular for pregnant women, as well as the women who look like they're pregnant (but have really just had a few too many tubs of ice cream.) At a local yard sale a few years ago, I modeled one of these lovely gowns much to the hilarity of several dozen onlookers.

Why were the onlookers laughing? Well -- Because muʻumuʻu's are ugly. Everbody knows that, right?

Right?

Aparently not. I don't know if London missed out on the world deciding that muʻumuʻu's were forever banned from being cool, or if the style gods at Versace and Dior are just playing a joke on all of us ... but somehow muʻumuʻu's are in. It is almost impossible to walk 10 minutes from my doorstep without seeing a few Londoners doning the latest craze.

Now I am not one who hates style. In fact, I generally think I am quite welcoming to the "art of fashion." But muʻumuʻu's are just one place I will not go. Here is a picture of my failed shopping day a couple weeks ago. The shirt was so ugly, I just had to snap photographic proof.

My mission has been simple - a blouse that would wear over jeans or a skirt. Two hours on Oxford Street and I was UNABLE to find a shirt that proved I had a waist. Instead, these frumpy maternity muʻumuʻu's ruled the racks. Where has the world's sense of feminity gone if all we wear are unflattering curtains?

I've decided to tune out of fashion until all this mess is over. Please, do give me a nudge and wake me up if you see signs of a waist or bustline anywhere.

Oh, and don't get me started on skinny jeans.

a perfect holiday.

2007-04-10T16:31:00.000-04:00

Not much can beat a perfect day at the beach. You know the kind I'm talking about. Just enough sun to make your skin glisten without breaking into a full sweat ... a slight breeze that makes the loose pieces of your hair dance gently around your face ... cool water that nips your toes, causing you to second guess your initial decision to test the waters ... ahhh ... It is bliss!

This past weekend I was afforded such a luxury at Brighton, one of England's most popular shore destinations. Between sunning on the warm stones, strolling around the pier and ducking in and out of trendy boutiques I had the perfect one-day get-away. Have a taste of my trip in this slide show I threw together. The song couldn't be more perfect since we were technically on an island in the sun...

Unfortunately, now I have several final papers that need attention. Looks like that will be my last holiday for a while!

life as a book.

2007-04-04T09:04:00.000-04:00

Firsts are always things that we find worthy enough to commit to memory. Though we are flooded with information and events on a daily basis, firsts seem to have a sticking power beyond algebra or present participles. The first few moments on an unaided bicycle. The first disappointing grade on a school paper. The first traumatic day after an awful haircut. Our lives are an endless string of firsts. Yet even among all the important firsts, the ones dearest to the heart are those that are most lucid. The first kiss. The first crush. The first broken heart.

I was reflecting on my first broken heart a couple days ago, and it got me thinking about…books. Non-sequitor maybe, but stick with me on this one.

When I was in the seventh grade, I was “the new girl” in school. As is typical for most new girls, I became the instant affection of a dozen seventh grade boys. Though I had my pick of the batch, something about Craig caught my attention. He liked good music, had good hair and wore funny t-shirts… what else could a girl want? One fateful day I told my friend, who told his friend, who told him that I liked him – after which – he told his friend, who told my friend, who told me that he liked me too. It was official. We were “going-out.”

Our love may not have been the strongest in the history of mankind, but it was nice. We sat next to each other in class and walked around the field during recess – all the telltale signs of a solid twelve-year-old relationship. One day, however, things began to sour. Craig stopped waiting for me after class. I no longer got thoughtful notes folded into delicate origami shapes. Recess was spent sitting on the brick wall, overlooking Craig and his friends play flag football. Within the week, Craig broke up with me via a note (how typical), which was delivered during homeroom.

Getting broken up with is hard enough, much less in front of an entire classroom of seventh grade nincompoops. I swallowed hard, choking back the tingling fire that had set ablaze in the seat of my throat. As the tears began to come I was desperate to find a distraction. Reaching into my desk for a disguise, I pulled out a copy of The Giver. I was twelve-years-old, broken-hearted, and crying in front of my peers. There was nothing else I could do but hide behind the hardback cover of a book until it was safe enough to come out.

In a way, that book saved my day. It served as a shield from embarrassment … from my first broken heart. The Giver gave me another world (much better and more interesting than my own) to escape to for the day.

While engrossed in literature there is a comfort that all has been said and done. The future is certain, lying just a few pages ahead in solid black and white. Even if you are halfway through the book, you know that the end is coming. Even if you want to change things, you can’t. Even if you hate the book, you always have the option to stop reading. Things are just easier when you read them in a book.

Reality isn’t quite as generous. Every moment is filled with uncertainty and the weighted thought that all your actions impact your future. You can’t flip to the next chapter, or reread a previous one. You can’t rest assure that the end is already certain. To be quite honest, reality isn’t a convenient as books.

It is however, much more exciting.

ribbs worn shoes.

2007-03-31T10:14:00.000-04:00

Driven by a sense of retrospection, I read through the essay that helped to get me selected for this London experience. What I found were words that at one point I practically knew by heart. This essay was the center of my world for a while -- partly because of its importance to my study abroad plans, but also because of the healing that it provided me. I thought I would share the portions of my essay that touched on Mr Ribb so that all of you could get an idea of why I wanted to come in the first place...

As long as I can remember, I have wanted to study abroad. Before I even knew what was beyond my house in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, I knew I had to be out there; out in a world where my comfort zone is pressed, where history and modernity collide, where people can break from the rhythm of their lives, if only just for a moment. I knew I wanted learn things that cannot be taught, which can only be acquired through life. Now, finally, an opportunity has come for me to not only visit a country abroad, but to become part of a larger community.

Community is a feeling I know very well. Since moving from my house in Pennsylvania, I have lived in a string of small cities and towns that offered some wonderful friends. One of the people who I had been closest to in my life was my high school Latin teacher, Olof Ribb. On the first day of class, he put a picture on the board of two girls sitting under a tree. “Puellae sub arbore sedent,” he said to a room full of blank freshmen faces. “Sub arbore sedent puellae,” he said again, as he pointed to the tree and then to the girls. After four or five minutes of this, it finally clicked. “The girls sit under the tree,” I thought to myself. Little did I know that this was only the beginning of what I would learn from Mr. Ribb…

Olof Ribb would appear to be a simple man to those who don’t know him. Though he turned 59 this year, he still sleeps in a twin bed in a three room apartment. When looking around his living room, you can see what he truly values. Books line his shelves with the names Aristotle, Homer, and Isabelle Allende laid in gold on each spine. The books are in Spanish, Latin, Italian and German—all of which he can speak and read fluently. On his walls hang treasures from distant lands, each probing a hundred questions from your mind. A small, funny looking statue sits on his coffee table demanding your attention with its absurdity. It is a wooden relic from India, a place he’s only been once but yearns to return to one day.

Olof does not spend his money on his home or his car. To him, tangible wealth is worth nothing. What Olof thinks made him wealthy, is his sense of the world. Wealth is nothing that can be juggled among fingertips, but rather the blueprints of the life you have lived. When visiting his house, several friends and I made fun of his twin bed. He just laughed saying “Well, I’m not really in it much,” as he pointed to a wall with a world map that was littered with push pins to represent the places he had been.

When Olof travels, he doesn’t miss a beat. Spending most of his summers exploring Denmark or Sweden, he comes home with hour’s worth of stories to tell. He went to a spa in Norway, where after sitting in a hot tub, patrons would recline in the snow until their skin stop tingling. After renting a bicycle in Italy, he biked along the shore until he reached a place so remote that he skinny dipped in the sea. Though all of his stories were exciting to hear, they would also make me sad: I had no stories of my own. Hearing about his life forced me to evaluate my own. With introspection I’ve seen how naive I am about things outside of ‘my world’ and am now eager to expand my horizons.

On the last day of school, Mr. Ribb took our small advanced Latin class to Olive Garden for dinner. While dining on crab stuffed ravioli, breadsticks, and Italian salad, he gave a little speech about how much our class had meant to him. He spoke to the room full of adults who no longer wore ‘blank freshmen faces’ but rather smiling-through-tears faces of admiration. He gave each of us a card with his contact information and a special quote that he picked out for each of us to remember. I recall blinking through tears to look down and read my card.

“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.”
- Saint Augustine
Read on, Olivia!

Why he chose that quote for me, I can never imagine; but, ever since the quote has had profound impact on me. My choice to study abroad is as much educational as it is spiritual. Yes, I want to go for all the educational benefits, but I also want a renewed look at myself and my country. I feel that spending this time abroad will broaden my awareness, making me a more rounded person.

After a short struggle with cancer, Olof Ribb died on January 17, 2006. He was only fifty nine years old.

I was stunned. I was confused. I did not cry right away. Since I was not with him when he passed, it was hard for me to convince myself that he was really gone. Two weeks went by, and still, I had not fully accepted his death. Over winter break I flew to Colorado to see some relatives. On the flight, I was lucky enough to get a window seat, since it was such a beautiful day. I sat with my forehead glued to the window, enjoying the clouds lit golden by the sun, when a song swept through my ears…

“The soles of your shoes
are all worn down,
The time for sleep is now,
It’s nothing to cry about,
Cuz we’ll be together other soon.”

The song is by Death Cab for Cutie and is called “I Will Follow You Into The Dark.” Something about those lines gave me peace. The soles of Olof’s shoes were all worn down. He died a happy man having lived his life well and having seen so many things.

My shoes, however, have yet to be broken in. I am ready to be abroad, to see the world in a new perspective. I am ready to be a Londoner. Having spent years preparing myself to embark on an abroad adventure, I am finally ready to start reading that book.

END

And the good news is, my shoes are looking fairly worn these days...

czech marks the spot.

2007-03-29T17:09:00.000-04:00

A lot of you have been asking about my trip to Prague this Spring Break. Here's a quick video with some of the highlights. Do mind my voice however. I've got a bit of a cold so did well to sound pubescent. I had a lovely trip despite the frigid temperatures!

A few things the video missed:

The best gelato I've ever had
The fantastic hotel we stayed in - complete with a hot tub and sauna (which we abused)
The Internet Engineering Task Forcers with whom we shared Goulash and good beer

Overall a great trip! Next on the agenda is Dublin, Ireland later this month. I'm sure we'll have no problem getting into trouble there.

silence of settling.

2007-03-29T12:34:00.000-04:00

I know I've let you down lately. My devotion to the blog has become awry as I grow more and more comfortable here. Don't blame me though, blame the experience. As my days tick on, I am feeling less and less the excitement of the mundane. It's not a sad thing, so do not fret. It is more a settling of self; a slipping into comfort. Think of it as putting on a pair of trousers fresh from the warm dryer.

A couple of months ago a trip to the grocery store would have been a cultural experience, worthy of some lofty thought like, "The patterns and rhythms by which people nourish themselves indicate more than just a cultural difference... and so on" (A lifetime in academia has taught me to fluff with the best of them.) But now the grocery store is nothing more than an institution where my math skills are contrasted with my palette - Chicken breast for £3 or a loaf of bread, tub of butter, pack of digestives and bag of carrots for £2.50? It's always a tough choice, but my wallet usually wins.

A couple of months ago I may have mentioned to you my life plan. Some array of the following might have come out, in no particular order: Graduate school, journalist, politics, law school, hobo, Trinidad and Tobago, university professor, optometrist, restaurant, business or prostitution. (Okay, just kidding on the last one - really.) But now I am possibly a little less set on having one certain goal, and more excited about seeing where opportunity lets me drift.

I know all these changes were probably inevitable, and with due time they might have happened in Elon. But London has been like a catalyst, giving me the room and nourishment to reassess myself and my goals. I am left with one question though, and I am not entirely sure that I will ever know the answer. How much of an effect does environment truly have on a person? Will I be different because of my time here? Or has experiencing myself in a different culture only allowed me to see things that were there all along?

non parlo italiano.

2007-03-18T13:33:00.000-04:00

It always amazes me how much the world can change over a two-hour flight through the darkness of the European sky. One minute I am lugging my bag onto the tube and the next I am holding onto my seat as I fly around a blind curve on the edge of a mountain in Switzerland. Really, travel is quite mind-blowing. Just think that you could walk from Portugal to China and watch culture change 60 times along the way... it's inspiring.

I spent my past weekend with Sam and his aunt Alesia, at her lovely home in Lugano, Switzerland. Amidst a chaos of small windy roads that just had enough space for one and a half cars (despite claims they were two-lane roads) I found a serene getaway from the hustle and bustle of London. Like a toddler sitting at the grown-ups table, I was able to understand little clips of the language here and there, but for the most part found those speaking around me to be white noise. The speedy flutter of Italian was nothing more than a soundtrack to the beautiful scenery and good company.

The morning after Sam and I arrived we headed down to the lake in Lugano to explore a bit of the town. Watch shops, high-end retail and cute cafes lined the cobblestone streets that wound through the city. I loved the vibrant colors that were affluent on the signs and buildings. England and America seem to have a color-phobia when it comes to architecture that is rather dissapointing.

Feeling through our sense of adventure, Sam and I headed for a hike along the water where we were told some other cool villages could be found. Along the way the sights were pretty spectacular. Homes were just stacked upon one another in a way that is really intriguing. Some homes looked more like a playhouse that a child might dream up as opposed to a legitamate residence. What I would have given to explore some of them...

On Friday we went skiing in the -- get this -- Swiss Alps. I know you're impressed. Somehow the beauty of the Alps managed to surpass expectation by leaps and bounds. There are few sights more incredible than miles and miles of snow covered mountains. It's entirely belittling, so gave me a head full of lofty thoughts. Not much can beat thinking about life, faith and love as you surge 30mph down a mountain - perhaps Swiss chocolate, but not much less.

On the topic of Swiss Chocolate. Yes, it is probably some of the most delicious chocolate I've ever had. And yes, I got loads of it that I plan on bringing back to the states. I might save a bar or two for Halloween and give it out to some lucky trick-or-treater...we'll see.

All in all I really enjoyed Switzerland and Italy. The most credit for my experience goes to Sam and Alesia, who were fantastic travel buddies, hilarious story-tellers, exceptional skiers and all around amazing people. I suppose I must also make a heartfelt mention of Roxie, Alesia's dog, who laid on the rug warming in the sun, squirmed at the thought of getting a treat and let me oodle annoyingly over her cuteness. I miss my dogs, so spending time with one was a treat.

Hopefully if the financial and logistical gods smile upon me I will get a chance to return to Switzerland before I tuck my tail between my legs, lower my ears and head back for the United States.

translate this.

2007-03-12T21:16:00.000-04:00

There are few languages in this world that can defy cultural boundaries. The language of human suffering or happiness are ones that instantly pop to mind. No matter who you are or where you're from, the sight of a crying woman or laughing baby invokes a certain understanding about that person that is solid and definable. An Indian, Chinese, Australian, American, Iraqi, Mexican, Greek or Ethiopian will all understand the same thing in the same instant. It is a language that is completely human, and we all grow up speaking it.

Yesterday I discovered another international language in which I am quite fluent--the language of soccer.

Inspired by yesterdays unseasonably warm sun and clear sky, my flatmates and I headed for Hyde Park with a soccer ball and sense of ambition -- what can I say, we pack light. We found a sunny patch of grass in the middle of the park that was just begging for some company and began to play. We started out with some awkward passes before moving into a game of keep away. A few minutes later we were approached by a collection of characters from all over the world. Really, it was like the cast of It's A Small World from Disney-- several Australians, a Greek, two Indians, a Russian and then our squadron of five Americans. They were looking for some people to assemble a pick-up game, and we were just crazy enough to agree.

After the teams were divided up our game began. Though nobody had introduced names we were able to communicate nonetheless. "Hey, hey, hey" means "give me the ball" in every language. A knowing look before a throw-in means "this ball is coming to you." And my favorite, "AIEAH" means "Oh Shit! They scored!"

Though we were all strangers from different lands, an hour and a half under the warming London sun with a soccer ball was enough to make us friends. I headed home with dirt smeared calves, a slight pull in my thigh and a powdery face from where the sweat had dried. Never in my time here have I felt so whole and satisfied. Getting back on a soccer field was in a way like finding a home here -- albeit in the center of Hyde Park!

you spin me.

2007-03-04T18:31:00.000-05:00

There is something that I need to get off of my chest. It is about time that I confess my new love. It is a love that has burned before, but never so strongly. Housed in morning newspapers, broadcast packages and behind the computer screen, it fuels the day. If you know me, you probably have already seen my affection, but now I am officially declaring it. I love political news.

Having spent the weekend in Harrogate at the Spring Conference for the Liberal Democrats, I find myself somewhat inspired. My weekend was consumed with scurrying around the conference center at 5 a.m. to deliver press clippings to important people. Other than that I helped out around our make-shift office, editing press releases and compiling lists of journalists. I also managed to sit in on a few speeches, from which I learned an extra ordinate amount about the party. I am starting to believe more and more that I might be a Liberal Democrat somewhere inside. Yeah, I've been drinking the Kool-Aid.

Aside from work, I did a lot of observing. Just watching how those around me carefully construct press releases or organize a speaker for the nightly news is vastly interesting. In the end, I have planned to be on the receiving end of all of these messages, so it is valuable to see how the spin works from the inside.

However, the longer that I am here the more that I have been thinking about my own career goals. Working spin has a certain thrill to it that was unexpected. Though I have always stood by the valency and nobility of being a journalist, there is an appeal to the darker, dirtier side of working PR. 'It's the truth -- but on my terms' type stuff. I think that political PR has an appeal because of the importance of the repercussions of the message. PR engages the devious, critical thinking, somewhat conniving and incredibly passionate parts of my personality... and it feels so good!

rain-soaked matisse.

2007-02-24T17:25:00.000-05:00

I believe that everybody has a couple adjectives by which they can be defined. These words weave together to paint a loose picture of the person -- something like a poorly contrived watercolour painting. Though details are indefinite, shapes and figures can still be perceived. Picture a Matisse painting that has been sitting in the rain for a few hours ... or stare at a bright light for 10 seconds then close your eyes -- paying close attention to the floating neon shapes. Yes, somehow in my imagination these blurry images can represent the foundation of a personality. Don't ask me how. Just go with it.

I don't know if it is my time here in London, or the natural growth of self -- but I am beginning to wonder if the adjectives that I had chosen as mine are still valid. Is my definition of self supposed to be the true person I am, or an idealistic person I aspire to be? One one hand I want to pursue an idealistic sense of self. But on the other hand, I wonder if I am neglecting parts of my personality that I should be embracing. Is "me" good enough? Or should I keep working at being "better than me"?

I realize that this is not the most interesting post. In fact, no matter how I phrase my sentences, it really is quite confusing. But here is the carry-home message: I am thinking... a lot... about who I am and what I want to be. I am at an extraordinary point in my life where I have an incredible amount of control over my future. If I wanted to, I could change my major and alter where I will be in 5 years completely. It is an uncomfortable amount of power that I'm not quite sure what to do with.

In short, every decision that I make today will play into my life 50 years from now.

No pressure.

xin nian yu kuai.

2007-02-19T15:59:00.000-05:00

For those of you who aren't familiar with Chinese, that means Happy New Year. It may have been weeks since you thought about the New Year, but not so fast. Just as those resolutions were starting to fade, the Chinese New Year whirls through as a reminder of how quickly you failed to achieve them. sigh.

In good faith, I spent my Sunday afternoon in Chinatown. Lured by the promise of an extravagant parade and the possibility of free food, it was too good a chance to pass up. Unfortunately, we missed most of the parade and the only free things in sight were red envelopes full of cheap chocolate. I did manage to hunt down some tasty Lo Mein and a couple dancing dragons though!

Tomorrow is one of my most beloved days of the church calendar. Not much can top a day where you can guilelessly gorge yourself on syrup smothered pancakes in the name of your God. Yes, being a Christain has its perks.

Although I am a little dissapointed at the commercialization of Shrove Tuesday in England. To the masses it is known as "Pancake Day," and they couldn't tell you any of the religious reasoning for the feast. It is so commercialized that it warrents a special display in the grocery stores -- complete with flour, nutella and lemon juice. What is this display missing, I ask you? Syrup. Why? They don't put syrup on their pancakes here. They squeeze fresh lemon on top and coat it in sugar. Hmm... I'll give it a shot tomorrow but we'll see.

I did manage to find a tiny bottle of "Maple Flavoured Syrup" hidden in the corner of the store. There wasn't any Mrs. Butterworth's to be found. I am not sure if this stuff will work but my fingers are crossed that it does the job!

spandex afternoon.

2007-02-15T11:10:00.000-05:00

Two weeks into my time here, and I could not say more about my experience. I have found that studying abroad has already done more than open my eyes to a new way of life. It is helping me realize the things that I take for granted. For me, a few of these things are boxed macaroni and cheese, the word vitamin being pronounced correctly, free nights and weekend cell phone minutes and the Elon gym 30 seconds from my dorm room.

In mourning of my home gym, I decided to go on a run today. Decked out in my cold-weather tight spandex pants and track jacket I headed down to the canal near our flat for a nice run on the tow path.

At first everything was lovely. The placid water was broken only by the gentle bobbing of a duck. A pair of cyclists pedaled leisurely along side one another. The sun was almost warm and the wind was slight. All that I could hear was the rolling murmur of the water and the repetitive cadence of my running shoes. I'm sure you get the picture -- it was beautiful.

I was soon confronted by the end of the tow path, so decided to head around a couple of blocks before circling back to the flats. I felt adventurous for venturing into uncharted territory (can you tell where this story is going yet?) I started out on a side street with the intention of taking the first left, after which I planned to take another left and end up back at the canal. Good idea, right? In most circumstances, I would have been fine, but in London they don't believe in city blocks. Apparently angled roads, dead ends and alleyways were all the rage in the 1800s. And all this time I thought all they cared about gold, tea and world domination!

My plan to take lefts turned out to be a disaster! Instead I found two dead ends, had to jump a fence to get on the sidewalk, ran through a outdoor market, nearly got killed by a double-decker tour bus, and, I kid you not, got chased for about 30 second by a loose dog. Really, I am not making this up.

I wound up at Paddington Station -- one of the biggest transportation hubs in London. Now it is one thing to be running through a neighborhood in spandex. But it is an entirely different matter to be in the center of 100 people, trying to cross the street in spandex. All I could do was keep running, because it just doesn't get much worse than walking in spandex. I convinced myself that if I kept running they might not notice how out of place I was among the Marks & Spencer clad swarm of young professionals.

I heard a couple guys whistle. But mostly people just starred. I kept reassuring myself that I would never see these people again. Oh please God, never again.

Thirty minutes later, with amazing luck (and utilization of my internal compass), I found my way back to the canal. Fueled on embarrassment, I sprinted home, thus completing one of the fastest runs I have ever taken. Good exercise, indeed. I guess I can continue on without my beloved gym.

Lesson Learned: Always look at a map and plan out a route before venturing into the world in spandex pants.

chasing childhood.

2007-02-11T15:27:00.000-05:00

Isn't it tragic how we spend most of our childhoods pretending to be adults? Armed with cute faces and innocent eyes, we have almost anything at our disposal. Instead we spend our free time envying the big kids and "playing house." As far as we are concerned being a grown-up is about being cool, driving a car and staying up past nine o'clock.

As a kid, I was really excited about getting a job and I knew I wanted to be a librarian. Why I was attracted to the field is beyond me, but I knew it was my calling. I set up a library in my room, organized the books by title and invented a make-shift dewey decimal system. Calling my parents up the stairs, I insisted they check a book out, but warned about what would happen should they be late to return it. Oh my.

Now that I have finally reached adulthood, I have figured what it is really all about -- bills, work and responsibility. I am suing Barbie and The Game of Life for false advertisement. How did they convince me that being an adult was so much fun?

I am griping about adulthood because we visited Hyde Park today. Hiding in a sea of lush green fields we found the Peter Pan Playground. A pirate ship was the center of attention, complete with hanging ropes and even a plank. Fun looking obstacles surrounded the ship and a shreded tire bedding buffered any falls. Since we were grown-ups without children, we weren't even allowed into the playground. Harsh.

We were able to take a step back in time with a visit to the Peter Pan statue. Naturally we all took turns posing. Also, a trip to Hamley's (London's answer to F.A.O. Schwarz) provided a little waunder down memory lane. I put together a slideshow so you can follow my nostalgic few days.

Try not to tear up... being an adult has its perks too. For example...you can go on all the rides at Disney World?

mounting culture.

2007-02-06T19:17:00.000-05:00

I am quite sure that I have done more in the past week than I normally do in a month while I am at home. While the work load is still light, I am trying to really take advantage of the free time that I have. Living in one of the cultural capitals of the world, I have been like a fly to light to see museums, performances and historic sights.

Firstly, there is the theatre. Yes it is -re not -er, I am part British now, remember? On Wednesday, my flatmates and I treated ourselves to our first big time show. "We Will Rock You," a musical centering around the greatest hits of rock gods, Queen, was at the top of our list of things to see -- partly because we love Queen, but also because it was rumored the tickets were cheap. What can I say, we're college students! In the end, good decision. The show was part musical and part rock concert that left us singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of our lungs (and quite out of key.) "Thunderbolt of lightning -- very, very frightening!"

Thursday, Bethany and I decided to infiltrate high society by attending a performance of Agrippina at the English National Opera. Wearing our most lovely outfits, we sat amidst a flock of AARP-qualified opera lovers. The theatre was absolutely lovely, adorned with gold embellishments, marble accents and intricate carvings. In stark contrast the show was actually quite crude, featuring unexpected partial nudity and a select array of words that I will allow you to guess. I fully enjoyed the show, partly for its well contrived plot but also for its surprising humor.

As a final note, it snowed in London yesterday. Probably just a couple of inches, but practically the whole city was shut down. It was rumored to be the worst snow in 10 years, which is hard to believe considering most of it was melted by 3. A lot of the underground trains were closed down or severely delayed, so our class was cancelled. Alas, there truly is a place in this world that is worse at coping with snow than North Carolina. Who would have thought.

london alone.

2007-02-05T17:26:00.000-05:00

Being alone in a big city is supposed to be a scary thing. As little girls we are told stories of monsters and beasts, when really they should warn us of rapists and thieves. Today was my day to venture into the city on my own accord. Armed with a London map, guidebook, tube pass and cell phone I made my debut as "alone in the city."

I began my venture with a trip to the Press Office of the Liberal Democrats. Starting on Wednesday I will be interning there twice a week. In an effort to ensure I do not get lost on the first day, I took a dry run to help establish my route. As I walked out of the Westminster tube station, I was instantly dwarfed by the overwhelming "Big Ben." I cannot think of a more magnificent symbol to see every morning on my way to work. It's like a little reminder: "You're in London. Do something!" Just a minutes walk from Parliament I stumbled across the office. It's set on the corner of a cozy side street. Not much traffic -- which is great, as I am still getting used to the whole "look right" concept.

Next I wound my way over to Westminster Abbey. In an attempt to cheat the system, I decided not to pay the entrance fee and instead return for a free service one evening. I did show my support by buying a postcard from the gift shop though! I am collecting postcards from nearly everywhere I visit and will be writing journal entries on the back. Hopefully by the end I should have a couple dozen postcards that should serve as a really nice, meaningful souvenir.

For the fun of it, I hopped on a random city bus and vowed to jump of wherever something looked interesting. Carpe Diem at its finest? I think so. I sat next to an elderly man on his way to see his daughter, Michelle. We had a stimulating conversation about the advantages of coming from a society where Peanut Butter is a regular part of the diet. Score one America.

A short ride later, I ended up in Trafalgar Square and explored The National Gallery. For a couple pounds donation I rented an audio guide. I was completely impressed and overwhelmed with the history and stories behind each piece of artwork. It will take the entire time I am here to make my way through the museum, and I am excited to have only just begun.

After all my adventures I met some friends at the premier of "Music & Lyrics" at the Odeon. From 40 feet I spotted a very handsome Hugh Grant and blushing Drew Barrymore. Quite a contrast from the art museum, I know, but since it was a first for me, it was a big deal nonetheless.

Returning home with feet that burned from walking and a head that throbbed with exhaustion, I felt triumphant. A day that I thought would be boring and drab turned into one of the best I have had yet. Solitary travel is something that I would have once feared, but am now growing quite keen on. It makes good time for reflection which would have otherwise been filled with conversations. I will be secretly hoping for more lonely days to come.

questioning cadence.

2007-02-02T19:15:00.000-05:00

Only a few days in and I am already feeling myself become part of the ebb and flow of the city. Swipe card. Step down. Step down. Step down. Turn left. Doors open. Step in. Grab bar. Wisp clatter. Train rattles. Breaks squeal. Doors open. Step out. Turn left. Turn right. Step up. Step up. Step up. Swipe card. Fresh air. There is an underlying cadence to just about everything. From flutter of the British accent to the gentle rumble of the underground.

The first few days -- I was awkward. Unsure of my surroundings, I felt like a baby calf wobbling on long feeble legs. But given four days to grow and learn, I have come very far. I actually think that at some point I will feel a part of this place that amazes me so much.

However, the more I become part of this place, the more I am forced to think about who I am. I have to decide what parts of my identity are mine, and what is just something that comes along with living in America. The more I assimilate to British culture, the more I wonder if I should. Perhaps being here isn't about fitting in. But rather about being willing to stand out.

Peeling a person apart from their culture can have two results...

The culture is so much a part of that person that they are empty and lifeless without it.
By stripping away ones culture, you are allowing the true, undefined self to thrive.

In hope and fear of these two options, I am being careful with myself as I make this transition. Facing the gap between culture and self isn't particularly easy -- like removing a hat without knowing if your hair has managed to keep its shape, or has gone awry. I'm only hoping that my scenario turns out more like number two, and not at all like option one. Will my hair look good without the trusty cap?

a weary two days.

2007-01-31T13:34:00.000-05:00

After months of thinking, wondering and daydreaming, I finally arrived in London yesterday. Unfortunatly, I can barley remember my first few moments. A painful jet-lag hangover stuck with me most of the day. Even after a short nap I was mixing words and muddling thoughts. I actually started to write a blog entry yesterday, but after rereading what I wrote, deleted the post in its entirety.

The weariness broke soon after dinner. Canden, a friend who recently graduated from Elon, took us out to a restaurant for fish and chips (of course). It was nice to see a familiar face, especially since she's already been here a month, and knows her way around the city quite well. The first night in any big city can be daunting. But knowing that I live here and need to be learning street names, tube stops and where to get a deal on milk -- it can be a lot! I've already had to remind myself that this is not vacation -- class starts next week so I'd better work fast!

I cut together this short slideshow a little bit ago. I will not lie -- it is kind of crude. But I figured the point was not to produce a masterpiece, but rather convey an idea of the day to day life. This one covers the first two days.

I only really showed a little bit of the flat. But to go into more detail -- I'm living with 7 other girls. There's 3 bedrooms, all of them look pretty much like mine. Each room has its own bathroom as well. It was certainly a pleasant suprise. The rooms are a lot larger than I expected! Lovely!

the empty room.

2007-01-25T23:57:00.000-05:00

Moving is exhausting. And I don't think I am very good at it. Instead of putting everything neatly into boxes, I tend to try and utilize what I have. A rolling suitcase becomes a portable bookshelf. My laundry bag, a linen closet. Then there is the sock basket that overflows with the random things that had no other place: an alarm clock, a half empty bottle of shampoo, a blue case of waxed dental floss and a pink polka-dotted sock (whose pair I have seen, but am not sure where.)

The only thing that I really like about moving is the accomplished feeling that usually follows. When I woke up this morning my dorm room was full of lots of things. Tall things, heavy things, things to be thrown away and things to be wrapped delicately in newspaper and placed into a sturdy box. But as I left, it was an empty shell waiting for its next tenant.

I like the optimism of an empty room. It has the potential to become anything. Perhaps it is my affinity for Home and Garden Television that draws me to appreciate such a clean slate. But I think it might also have something to do with my desire to start anew every so often. If you continue to read my blog, you will find that I am awfully fond of symbols. I see them practically everywhere thanks to a lifetime of quality English teachers.

For me, the empty room and my life are kind of similar right now. They are both getting ready to be refilled with new things. They are both awaiting new life.

leaving not losing.

2007-01-22T13:48:00.000-05:00

With a week left to go in my countdown to London I find myself with a set of conflicting emotions. An overwhelming excitement builds within me as I daydream about my first few moments in London. Will I comprehend where I am? Will I be too tired to care? Or will I run out immediately and begin enjoying the city-life that I have been eagerly anticipating? Probably a mixture of all three. Though I have spent the past year thinking about my stay in London, I know that the minute I am there, none of that will matter. My daily devotion of imagining where I'll visit, who I'll meet and even what I'll wear will dissipate as reality sets in. It will be scary -- it will be awesome.

I've always loved doing things that push me. I believe that you cannot find the edge of comfort if you do not seek to surpass it. In many ways, this trip is about pushing outward. I'm leaving Elon, a place that I love to be, despite my constant criticism. I'm leaving the comfort of family a half-dozen states away. I'm leaving chances that I would have taken and opportunities that I would have met. I'm leaving a boyfriend with whom I am very much in love. I'm leaving the three jobs which have helped finance this endeavour. I'm leaving a little brother who turns 13 too soon for me to believe. I'm leaving friends who say they'll keep in touch -- but we'll see. Yes, indeed, I am leaving a lot.

What I do keep telling myself which helps to stifle my fears is this: "Olivia. You are leaving, not losing." Because really, everything I am leaving will not be lost. Different -- probably. But certainly not lost.