A very important day in the life of Dona Lee Patrick. I am now on my way to becoming a butterfly. I am now a caterpillar, but soon may be a butterfly. I don't think I will ever be on the caterpillar pillar. I wonder if I have to spin a cocoon.
Woody and I went to a speech today about knowing ourself. In order to have a good life (all aspects of it) one must first know oneself.
I don't know what that man [the speaker] did to me, but whatever he did it sure felt good! I was full of electricity when I left. It was wonderful. Woody and I got to know each other even better.
Note: The notice for this meeting was something about sex. The speaker was one of those charismatic motivational speakers that knows how to work an audience. I'm not sure what it was all about -- my husband went too (we didn't know each other at the time) and thought it had something to do with self-actualization. Something possibly akin to Scientology. Dean was not as impressed as I was.
The whole butterfly - caterpillar - caterpillar pillar thing was from a book by Trina Paulus called Hope for the Flowers. I still have a copy of this book and read it now and then. Each time the message is a little different for me.
There was also a whole sunrise aspect / discussion about this seminar. Now that I think back on it, I'm a little skeptical. It might have been anything -- some sort of cult trying to recruit college students. I'm surpised there is not much on YouTube about this book, but here is a video inspired by it.
I don't know why I am writing this. I've already got my emotions straightened out I think. I just can't figure out the good feelings I have around Woody (that's his name for sure, I asked him). They are not sexual, for he is not very good looking, they aren't really emotional either. I just like him. But I have an awful feeling (it isn't awful at all) that he has a different sort of feeling for me. I am not sure. I guess that this is what I hoped for. Now "to lead him on or not to lead him on, that is the question." (Whether 'tis nobler...)
I don't really know. I don't know what I'd do if he asked me out. I hope he does. We may go to a concert this Saturday. I'm not sure; he just asked me if I was going. Maybe he will want to meet there. Why do I care? A good excuse is that I have uneventful weekends. All I do is sit around and get bored. I need social interaction but I won't get it on my own. I need friends. What to do???
My stupid face is breaking out. I hate that. I've got a paper to do for English.
Note: All I can say is WHAT A BITCH! I was calculatingly planning on leading him on? Geeze... I thought I was a better person than that.
I've finally hit upon something I can't very well write to Jeremy -- my attraction to another man guy. I can't figure it out. I "dressed up" for this person today -- I even curled my hair. He is in my dreams and even supersedes Jeremy on my waking thoughts.
I love Jeremy. I can't have any emotion left over for "Woody" (I'm not sure what his name is, he never told me). Why do I get all in a hassle over such a silly thing?
I feel like a teeny-bopper with a crush! In essence that is what I am. I am so happy to be alive right now. Whether or not "Woody" has anything to do with my renewed love of life, I don't really care. I think I'll tell him.
Note: While I don't remember meeting Woody, I do remember him well as we were to become good friends over the next few years.
I've just finished copying the song on the preceding pages. I got angry downstairs and didn't lose my temper. Instead I brushed my teeth. Boy, did they get clean. My throat hurts a little bit now, I don't know why. I've got Tommy playing, but it is too loud. I think that I really ought to clean my room now. I hate that task, but I have to.
I didn't write to Jeremy last night. Not because I forgot, but because I was tired.
I'll sing you one, O Green grow the rushes, O What is your one, O? One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you two, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your two, O? Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you three, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your three, O? Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you four, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your four, O? Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you five, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your five, O? Five for the symbols at your door, Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you six, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your six, O? Six for the six proud walkers, Five for the symbols at your door, Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you seven, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your seven, O? Seven for the seven stars in the sky Six for the six proud walkers, Five for the symbols at your door, Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you eight, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your eight, O? Eight for the eight bold rangers, Seven for the seven stars in the sky Six for the six proud walkers, Five for the symbols at your door, Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you nine, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your nine, O? Nine for the nine bright shiners, Eight for the eight bold rangers, Seven for the seven stars in the sky Six for the six proud walkers, Five for the symbols at your door, Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you ten, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your ten, O? Ten for the ten commandments, Nine for the nine bright shiners, Eight for the eight bold rangers, Seven for the seven stars in the sky Six for the six proud walkers, Five for the symbols at your door, Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you eleven, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your eleven, O? Eleven for the eleven who went to heaven, Ten for the ten commandments, Nine for the nine bright shiners, Eight for the eight bold rangers, Seven for the seven stars in the sky Six for the six proud walkers, Five for the symbols at your door, Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
I'll sing you twelve, O Green grow the rushes, O What are your twelve, O? Twelve for the twelve Apostles , Eleven for the eleven who went to heaven, Ten for the ten commandments, Nine for the nine bright shiners, Eight for the eight bold rangers, Seven for the seven stars in the sky Six for the six proud walkers, Five for the symbols at your door, Four for the Gospel makers, Three, three, the rivals, Two, two, lily-white boys, Clothed all in green, O One is one and all alone And evermore shall be so.
Note: So I remember singing this song but not transcribing it to my journal. I guess I found it in a book or somewhere and wanted to save it. The days before computers...
Wikipedia gives an interpretation of it. Here are Emma Peel and John Steed singing a snippet:
There, the last earring to be priced and put on the shelf. After two long days of setting up the Jewelry counter at my new job at Zayre in Elgin
After arranging the final display in the new jewelry department at Zayre, in Elgin, Bob and George, the district manager and district supervisor of the company behind the jewelry department, left for a coffee break. Bob, calling as he left, "Don't let anyone steal our jewelry now."
"No one is going to steal anything," I thought optimistically, while I polished the glass cabinets which held watches, lights and the more expensive jewelry.
When I was finished with the housekeeping, I stood behind the counter and tried to look like I'd been standing there for two years instead of two days. A few people bought things, and I rang up their purchases and gave them their change with no mishaps. All in all, everything was going very smoothly. A few women were milling around the various displays, chattering about how this or that looked. A man, tall and dark with a blue shirt was looking at the "genuine artificial" pukka shell necklaces. I had seen this man earlier that day in the store. He would be carrying a jacket or a pair of pants at one time and the next time nothing at all or something different.
Now the man was looking in one direction, then the other. He would pick up something and then put it back. He walked around the counter, still staring at people. For some reason I was careful not to catch his eye. I busied myself with straightening an already perfect display and figured that if I ignored this strange man he would go away. I suddenly caught myself -- what if the manager came back and I was being discourteous to a customer?
"Can I help you?" I asked the man, giving him a smile. He shook his head and continued swiveling his head, looking around the store.
After trying not to look self-conscious, I was startled by a loud rap on the glass cabinet at the end of the counter. Turning around, I saw that the stranger was now staring at me. I approached him and he pushed one of the fake pukka necklaces across the counter towards me. He shook his head. "Don't you want this?" I asked, wondering if he was deaf or couldn't talk for some reason. He shook his head again, but didn't open his mouth. I took the necklace and hung it on the peg it had come form and resumed my vigil at the cash register.
After about five more minutes, the man walked up to the register. He was still staring wildly around, mostly at the women in the jewelry department. He reached into his pocket with his right hand and while he groped for something there, with his left hand, handed me a wallet he had picked up off a shelf and said, "Now don't get nervous. Don't ring this up; I'm not buying it."
He looked around once more and slowly pulled his hand from his pocket. My heart was pounding as I watched his hand emerge from his pocket, expecting the worst.
"Oh thank God!" I thought, when I saw what he held in his hand was not a gun, but a black comb, three one dollar bills and some change.
"I'm security," he explained, "just give me a bag and make it look like this is real.
I pushed the total button on the cash register, put his "purchase" in a bag and stapled a fake receipt to the bag. As the tall, dark, "security" man walked away I felt my heart return to its normal spot in the center of my chest instead of in my throat where it had been for the past few minutes.
Note: I vividly remember the security guard who was the basis for this story. It really did happen this way, although I'd forgotten the details until reading this.
The man was probably in his mid-twenties. He was tall and handsome in a foreign way. He told me he was from Hawaii and not Pakistan which is where the rest of the security guards were from.
At 2:00 yesterday afternoon I decided to go home early in case the bus came earlier than usual. As I approached the door I saw that the bus was already turning the corner coming to the bus stop, which I wasn't at, but should have been. I said something under my breath, pushed through the revolving door and ran. My backpack bounced back and forth on my back
My usual routine after math, at 1:50 pm is to climb the steps by the lounge, shrug off my backpack full of books and sit on the ledge by the railing at the front entrance waiting until 2:05 when I walk to the bus stop by the north annex. The bus, usually on time, comes at 2:12. One particular Wednesday, though, I thought I'd leave a little early, since the driver hadn't been the regular one for the past two days and consequently the bus schedule was a bit mixed up.
As I stood up, putting my right arm through the red strap of my heavy backpack and walking to the revolving door, skipping the other strap in place around my left shoulder I noticed, through the window that the bus was already on its way down Fleetwood drive. In a matter of seconds it would be past the bus stop and I would have to wait a half hour for the next one. I pushed through the revolving door, not paying attention to the squeaking sound the rubber maked on the glass that usually makes me think of the sound a window-washer's squeegee makes. Then I ran.
My shoes making a flapping sound on the pavement and my books bouncing back and froth on my back with every running step I took. I passed two men in suits and ties wondering if they thought I was being pursued. All the while I was watching the bus, which by now had come to a halt at the bus stop.
No one was boarding so naturally I thought the driver was waiting for me. I paused in my flight wondering if he would stop at the corner where I was then standing. Better not chance it, I thought; so I was off again, afraid that the bus would zoom past me while I was halfway between stops. I finally reached the bus, panting form my run and boarded.
I thought I'd make a joke of the incident so I asked the driver if he'd ever tried to run with 15 pounds of books on his back. He answered dryly, "Not lately." He then sat there ten more minutes to make up for being early.
Note: While I don't remember the actual incident of running to the bus, I do remember writing this story for my English class. I think I got a good grade on it because of the action and description.
I thought I could handle it. I thought that since I know love and am engaged to Jeremy I could handle a conversation with another male as smoothly as a conversation with a female. But I can't. My heart is racing and I am shaking. I was fine -- so calm and cool when I was talking but now I am so nervous. It is awful. It was a man on the bus. A man. Not a boy. Maybe I can talk to a boy, my age or younger, but not a man -- with a beard. Not a fuzzy beard like Dan's but a well-trimmed beard. He was very nice. One stupid thing I said was my answer to his question, "Where do you board?" I thought he meant "live" so I replied, "I live at home." Then I realized what he meant so I said, "and I board at Paul's Restaurant." Good heavens, how embarrassing.
Note: I don't recall this exchange on the bus. I rode the bus to my community college because I didn't drive until I was 22 -- nearly 23 years old. It was a straight shot up McLean Avenue to the college, but too far to walk. I'd take the bus very early to avoid parochial school students.
The first thing to do is write in my English journal, then my regular journal, then to Jeremy, then to Sue and finally to Pam. Then I can read a chapter in Upstairs, Downstairs. Then to sleep.
I've been rearranging my room tonight. I think I will really like this way, but I become bored with it so often.
I think I'll be doing homework from the time I rise until Monty Python tomorrow.
I really think I like the way I have my room. Gee whiz -- now that I've found the way I like it, I don't have much longer in it. I'll be going away to school the year after next and when, who knows? Jeremy and I want to live together -- share an ampartment -- the first year he's here. Then I'll get married. So I guess this room goes to Kevin -- Or Mom and Dad.
It's going to be sad -- but I guess its not the room -- it could be all my things -- posters, drawings, records, books, knick-knacks -- everything. Everything holds meaning for me.
Note: About the room -- I think Kevin moved up there after I finally left (at age 23 -- I didn't go away to school and Jeremy and I broke up my senior year of college). When he left it was turned back into a storage room, occasionally used as a guest room.
While doing the dishes and worrying about my history test, my uncle -- whose daughter and I are the same age, but she isn't going to college -- asked me if I was going to school. When I said yes, he said, "So you aren't a working girl then?"
Complaining about my old history teacher to my eye doctor / friend and finding out that he had him for history and liked him.
Waiting a month for a birthday present from my boyfriend overseas and it being all chipped up when it gets here.
Getting all my homework out of the way and settling down in front of the television with my sewing to watch a movoe only to find out a different movie (about cops and robbers) is on instead.
I didn't quite execute self-discipline today. I got up late and only studied for one hour in the library, but the night's not over yet. I've just figured out that I waste 53 hours a week -- that's more than two days I waste -- and not sleeping either. What do I do with my time? Cut that -- it's 50 hours a week. Writing to Jeremy is not a waste of time.
Uncle Vern and Aunt Norma are over. Uncle Vern is so stupid -- all he talks about is how rotten the world is treating him and his little Bonnie (who's 19 in January) or how we should get rid of the [n-word] before they get rid of us. People like him make me ill.
Note: I don't remember this day nor the calculations I must have made to come up with how much time I wasted a week. Interesting. I wonder what I counted as wasting time. TV? What else. Not reading, I hope.
Uncle Vern - biggest bigot I've ever known. End of story.
I hate college. There is no doubt about it. But I have to go. If I want my family to respect me I've got to go. I hate Mr. Lehr. He is an old stupid man who should have been put out to pasture years ago. Well, I don't hate him. I hate the way he teaches. I know that hate is a strong word. I also know that I shouldn't use it. But I almost feel that strongly about homework. Why do I waste time? Time is so precious. I've learned that this summer.
I've got to get a job. I want to go to England next year so I've got to get a job. I don't want to -- my grades will suffer. I think I'm very un-self-disciplined. I've tried to be disciplined but I can't. I suppose I could if I tried. I think I will try. Tomorrow, instead of staying in bed after the alarm goes off, I'll get up and perhaps get something done. Then tomorrow night, instead of relaxing, I'll do homework. Saturday I'll go job hunting -- just see if I don't. I'll make it -- I'm sure of that.
Note: I was not self-disciplined. I'm still not self-disciplined. College was a rude-awakening. I didn't have to study much in high school for decent grades, but college was another story, especially in classes where the professor had been around a while. The newer professors were more easy going and perhaps had more interesting ways of teaching.
Bus driver sitting on her bus, under "No Smoking" sign, smoking a cigarette.
The last days of summer cloudy and cold while the first days of autumn sunny and warm
My father [incorrectly] correcting my mother's grammar (using still where yet would be better) and turning to me saying, "Good grief, she didn't never used to speak like that.")
A neighbor who moved away called up and said that someone had stolen her waitress uniform off the line and the next day finding out that one of her co-workers had hidden it in the rose bush.
An old woman whom I have lived behind for 14 years saw me at the bus stop and asked where I lived. This woman is known for her observation.
Note: I guess this was a list of contrasting things for my English class. I actually remember every event, especially my father's grammar lesson. My father thought that it was proper to use the word "yet" in place of "still" in most instances. For example, instead of saying, "My brother still uses this way of speaking." My dad would say, "My brother uses this way of speaking yet."
I don't know if it is correct, but I suspect not. Or perhaps it is a regional way of speaking.
The old broken down huts and the good houses. The little boy and his boyish / monkish sides The little boys ability to get along with the ox The kids insight on nature The violence contrasting with the monks serenity The girls smile being taunting while the kids smile friendly The older monks ignorance of the fun while the boy's fascination make shim stop and play with the puppets The little boy seemed to be doing what Buddha said more than the old monk
Note: This looks to be a list of observations of a short film we watched in class. I checked on IMDB.com for a short film called "The Smile" but didn't find one.
Last night as I tried to sleep at 11:00 pm, I wished my father would stop working in the basement. He was sawing and hammering and although I sleep on the top floor of the our two story house the sounds came up through the register and sounded like my father was in the next room. Buzz, buzz, pound, pound -- so late at night. Then I stopped, "Hey wait a minute." This is the only time he could work on the basement room. He works all day and moonlights after dinner. Then my mind wanders to other things he's done here late at night.
My room was built with that perseverance. He would be found pounding nails or sawing wood in the attic, transforming it into the beautiful room I call mine.
I never thought cleaning my room could be so enjoyable! It is so great to be back here -- I've got so many memories stored in every crevice. Even the carpeting is memorable. I know I had to give up my room to Jeremy for 6 weeks while he was visiting because it
Note: The entry before the crossed out paragraph was surprisingly compassionate for me during this time. It's pleasant to look back on it to see that I did understand what my dad went through to make us comfortable.
Not sure why I crossed out the last paragraph. Maybe I ran out of time to finish my thoughts?
Why do I always feel like doodling when I get bored with history? I've just drawn a shoe on my folder and my hand keeps straying to the white part of the paper. I can't stand history! I don't even feel like writing now. I'm hungry. I should have never begun eating lunch again. I'll never get any studying done. I'm going to meet Karen and Sue in 20 minutes.
Note: All I remember about this post is hating history. The professor was an old school educator and his lectures were very boring. Plus, I didn't like the subject. I failed a few quizzes, but finally got the hang of college history.
