Tag Archives: Miscellaneous

Categories

My last post was about belonging and acceptance. Part of that, as I said, is about being able to identify certain categories which make us, us. I also mentioned that I might be able to give you an exhaustive list of all the “buckets” or categories I fit into, and I figured it would be fun to try. In thinking about this, I realized that there are also subcategories that are worth mentioning, so I’ll include those, too. Also, there will be some things that are not on this list because they are not significant, or particularly defining.

Christian
-Roman Catholic

Political Independent
-Conservative (generally)

Musician
-Guitarist/Violinist/Ukulele-ist(?)
-Singer
–Alto

Self Employed
-Writer
–Blogger
–Novelist
–Songwriter

Asexual

Nerd
-Sci-Fi/Fantasy fan
-Gamer

American
-Bostonian
-French/English/Irish/Czechoslovakian/Danish/Italian

White

Millennial

Woman

“Disabled” (still working on a better word substitute)

Camper

Procrastinator

Nocturnal

Optimist

Animal Lover
-Pet (bird) Owner

College Grad
-English Major

Introvert

Economically Dependent (Grr)

Single

Really short (if this counts as a category…)

Perfectionist (with some things)

One-of-those-people-who-are-cold-all-the-time

Peacemaker

Pacifist

Superstitious (somewhat)

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

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Making A List And Changing My Mind

I realize that I’ve been posting a lot of not-so-happy things on here lately. Part of that is the result of working on my literary journal project for school. The subject matter of my journal was activism, so I ended up reading a lot of concerning things.

Yesterday I was in a bad mood. I read an article from a white woman’s perspective about her godson and his family, who were black. The story was about how, as a teenager, her godson was arrested for not giving up his hat at school because he was afraid he wouldn’t get it back, and later, how his father was badly beaten because he wouldn’t get out of his car fast enough when the police targeted him for committing a crime he had nothing to do with.

After reading this, I was angry. I was sad. I had to consciously remind myself that the world is not terrible, so I sang my song, “Good In Things,” to myself. It’s a happy song, and in that moment, it meant a lot. However, it took me all day yesterday to completely snap out of my bad mood. Yesterday afternoon I had to consciously make a list of what the good in the world was.

Here is my list:

Love
Faith
Trust
Hope
Music
Sunshine
Snow
Rain
Sunsets
Family
Cars
Airplanes
Food
Movies
The Internet
Powered Wheelchairs
Hospitals
Medicine
Doctors
Compassion
Engineers
Humor
Video Games
Blogging
Strawberries
Language
Hands
Guitars
Voices
Singing
Eyes
Cell Phones
Trees
The smell of dirt
Forgiveness
Fish tanks/fish
Doing stupid stuff
Water
Fire
The word “Noodle”
Redemption
God’s Plan
Jesus
Christmas
Presents
Guitar amps
The fact that I can be six inside
Penguins
Animals in general
Gravity
Solid things
The laws of physics
Philosophy
Bug spray
Lava lamps
Yellow paint
Paper
Coffee
Stars

All of these things are good.

The first few lines of my song go like this:

Do you remember when we built castle walls
With colored bricks to the ceiling of our skies?
Our friends and brothers came and knocked them down
But we built something better from the wreckage somehow.

I won’t say that everything happens for a reason, but often, bad things bring out the best in people. Often, something that just works has to be broken down to build something that works great. Often, we need a problem to create love; to create art; to create hope. That family’s story got out. Families will continue to face these kinds of problems, but amazing people will continue to tell their stories, and something will change. We just have to stay optimistic and hopeful because there is good in things, and there is good in people.

Christmas is supposed to be happy, and I just wanted to post something a little more optimistic today.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Here Is A Thing

Hey, everyone!

I know I’ve been a giant pain in the butt lately, but I have one more thing I’m going to bug you with. I’ve recently created a bandcamp profile, and although some of you might have bought my album on iTunes (which is super cool of you), you might not have, and if not, you can get it here for slightly less monies:
https://katierosecurtis.bandcamp.com/album/replace-these-empty-spaces

Or if you don’t want to buy it, I think you can just listen for free. Anyway, it would be super cool if you could at least check it out.

Thanks,

Katie

The True Meaning Of Mobile Home

I just read a blog post by a friend of mine from school. In the past year he took a semester abroad, specifically in Oxford England. In the spring we’ll both be graduating and he’ll be headed to grad school. I mention all of this because his post was about disorientation. He was talking about how he has lived in so many different places in a short period of time, and now his subconscious is losing its idea of where Home is. At the end of his post, my friend posed a question which I have expanded on: what exactly is home? can you take it with you? is it a physical place? What does it take to consider a place or a thing home?

I have a small bag with several compartments hanging off my wheelchair so I can reach it easily. During the school year, it’s generally filled with pencils, pens, folded up handouts that I have yet to file away, etc. However, right now it’s filled with a lot of other things. Right now it’s filled with a small, stuffed frog that I’ve had since I was five, several guitar picks, my notebook that is slowly being filled with new and old song lyrics, my special leopard pen, and an empty assault rifle shell that was used to decimate a pineapple yesterday. All of these things have either good use or happy memories attached to them, and I wonder if in a way, that makes them home.

My family and I got home around 11:30 last night after spending a week and a day camping in Maine. It’s usually very nice to come home from camping, but for some reason, it seemed like the week went by so fast that we weren’t quite as desperate to return as we usually are. Perhaps this is because camping has become the only time of the year we see some of our relatives. My cousin Amber, who is attending Mcgill University, has spent the past three summers there as well, and has decided to permanently plant herself in Montreal. My cousin Chris is now an EMT in Vermont, though he used to live in Maine. My Mom’s cousin Eddie comes down from Bangor Maine. The list goes on.

Sometimes things are very much the same from year to year, and some years we have a whole lot to catch up on at Camp. I have been doing this since I was a year old, and I don’t intend to stop any time soon. I hope that one of these years I’ll have a wedding to talk about, or maybe an apartment or house of my own. Maybe I’ll have a job, or maybe my music career will have taken off.

My brother doesn’t really love camping, but I hope he will continue to come once our parents have no more say in it. I hope he brings his wife and kids years down the road (if he has them, of course). He intends to become a brain surgeon, so that will make things interesting, but everyone has to take a vacation, right? One week during the summer seems reasonable.

All this is to say that I think I wasn’t completely thrilled to come home last night because in a way, Camp is home. I just read a blog post by a friend of mine discussing that particular issue: i.e. what is Home? His post came about as the result of a dream he had. In the dream, he was wandering around a familiar library in a completely unfamiliar place. The city in his dream was a strange combination of Boston, Oxford, and New York, where he has or will be living over the past several years and in the near future. He posed the question of whether or not the concept of Home is dependent on place. He talked about how so many people have no transition period between high school and the “real world,” and this results in a serious reality change that can cause real emotional damage in some cases.

One of my cousins went to a counselor a year or two ago, and he told my Mom that he learned something very helpful: there are essentially two types of people in the world: there are what the counselor called “sails” and “anchors.” An “anchor” he said, was someone who is very stable and will always be there for people. For me, this would be my parents, my brother, and a few of my friends. I know they love me, and I know I can depend on them for anything. I think it could be said that these people are Home.

I have a little pouch with several compartments hanging off the armrest of my wheelchair. This pouch is currently filled with a menagerie of things. It’s filled with my cell phone, my wallet, several guitar picks, a notebook that is slowly being filled with song lyrics, a small, awkwardly heavy leopard pen, a tiny stuffed frog toy, and an empty assault rifle shell from yesterday that was used to decimate a pineapple. My pouch is filled with different things at different times, but so is my life. For me, my pouch is Home. I always know that whatever I need at a given time is in there, even if it takes me a while to find it.

My friend asked the question in his post: can you take Home with you? It depends on what Home is for you. My house, among other things is Home for me, so in that sense no, but in other ways, absolutely. I love my bedroom, with its somewhat tacky color scheme, it’s purple and orange lava lamp, it’s multicolored pillows, its miscellaneous bookshelves, and its assortment of collected things, both worthless and expensive. Songs have been written in here, homework has been done in here, things have been celebrated in here, and tears have been cried in here. I pray in here and sometimes I eat in here. If there was a mini-fridge and a toilet I could live in here. My bedroom is absolutely Home.

I will probably always consider the house on Haverhill Street Home, even though I really don’t like living in Suburbia. I will always want to come back here for Christmas and Thanksgiving, even if, and when I have my own family, my own career, and my own house/apartment. I guess my response to my friend is: yes, Home is dependent on place, but for your own sanity, make sure you can take it with you, too.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!