There's No Z in Sleeping.

I'm speechless.

But that doesn't mean I'm writingless.

I'm sitting here staring and my apartment gradually losing it's sense of home, as if each pile of clothes or old examination books hold some personally-concealed magical aptitudes. The best part of relocation is the inventiveness and fresh outlook it brings. Finding things you once forgot about feels almost like Christmas, anxiously seeking the next gift addressed in your name. I pulled out several pictures of memories I seem to have forgotten, along with my favorite zebra costume, tail included. An old book lies to my right, and bare shelves harbor me overhead. Post-it notes reflecting archaic remembrances lie in the most uncanny and remote residencies. Like an unkempt garden, dried flowers still seem to maintain their enchantment and romanticism as I carefully pack them away into an over-sized shoe box. I gently pick up a leaf that elegantly fell to the floor. I hold on to it desperately and shut my eyes tight, hoping some paranormal event will transpire. I don't feel like myself. I don't feel much of anything.

I have a kitten waiting for me, and a good friend. I have a life in the future, and the more I think of it, I have a life in the present. I just have to convince myself that, no matter how bolstering and secure it may be, my comforter can only be exhausted as a shelter for so long.

2 Corinthians 1:6,
CourtReplies

Hello, World.

My posture became catastrophically rigid as Chris sat two chairs in front of me.

The professor was routinely administering the principles of interpersonal relationships, yet during this particular session, noted that he would focus on romantic associations. He expressed the desire for an analytical discussion on our perceptions regarding the idealist imagery each have conspired throughout personal experiences and observations. Each student had their turn to describe their somewhat fictitious yet hopelessly romantic dreams, leaving a note of forlorn solemnity in the air. Many spoke and spontaneously divulged in their deepest wishes. I let out a sigh, followed by an unintentionally loud,

"You've got to be kidding me."

All eyes instantaneously shot in my direction. I swallowed. My legs suddenly felt the strain from sitting Indian-style in what seemed to be a chair with the dimension of a booster seat. A few were still ahead of me to describe what would constitute a romantic relationship, yet, due to my remark teeming with negativity, the professor turned to me prematurely instead.

"Someone must have never felt the passion or affection of love before."

I grimaced inside. Was this appropriate to publicly accuse a student of an apparent pessimism towards any relational closeness? I looked back at him, and for once, felt no appeal for communication. I pulled my legs out of the awkward position I had first placed them in, and pigheadedly folded my arms across my chest.

"Could you share with us what you want, then?"

The room became silent, the temperature seemed to rise, and humidity set in. I noticed writing on the desk in front of me that read with ironic blatancy, 'L + J,' encircled by a heart. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, thinking of my reply.

"I just want someone to want to be with me, for who I am, and think I'm worth something."

My head dropped in an uncontrollable fashion. I didn't understand why I became so emotional at that second, feeling overwhelmed with a sense of isolation. The rest of the class period seemed to come and go without recollection, as I tried to muster my thoughts and sentiments. Chris looked back at me.

He gets up out of his seat, and picks up his notebook that he placed on the chair that separated us. He breached what little hope I had of a security screen. Class had ended, and I was hastily storing away my paper, lucky pen, and phone when I heard him.

"Court, you know, I just need to tell you a few things."

Chris is a 30-something male who is currently working towards his bachelors degree in Communication. Tall, broad, and blond, he cunningly acquired my phone number off of a private contact list on a previous class we had together. Chris, in all his nature, believes in no discursive filter, and is attracted to females significantly younger than him. Rumors of his 'stalker-traits' have been proven repeatedly, and I courteously try to avoid any foreseen encounters. Needless to say with all cynicism aside, he is a nice guy - just, well, too nice.

I held my breath. I glanced at my watch to see the time, trying to subtlety give note that I had somewhere to be. He bends over and I peripherally notice his face about 4 inches from mine. I hesitantly lift my head from my belongings and stare forward, keeping my eyes on the whiteboard as the professor erases his notes. He places his arm on my shoulder, and begins.

"Just to let you know, I can get you into most clubs on Hollywood boulevard."

I let out a laugh at his gift of throwing inhibition to the wind. He smiles and takes a momentous deep breath, as if preparing himself to jump out of a plane.

"Your response in class today told me a few good things about you that you do not know about yourself."

He paused, waiting for an encrypted non-verbal sign to cue his continuance. I offer a mannerly grin.

"You are very attractive, ambitious, independent, down to earth, and a good listener. Most girls I have met only have 2 of the 5 good qualities you have. Also, you make goals and stand by them. It is true, you like spontaneity. Most girls are envious and 99% of guys are intimidated by this. You live your life by experience, touch, movement, and asking the right questions. This is good because this ensures you will never hook up with a loser. Anybody would be lucky to be with you."

*Editors Note: These are his real words. Chris emailed me a bit after class and reiterated what he had stated previously. Thanks, Chris.

He smiles, pats me generously on the back, and exits the room with a 'see you later' shouted on the way out. Everyone had left, and I was alone. I blinked softly and took in his words. The remaining fluorescent lights that were on cast a glow, as the placid hum of the air conditioner added an ounce of serenity to the under-budgeted and empty chamber I found myself in.

I was alone.

I am alone.

I couldn't help but think of my current relations, and delve into the fact that I am excitedly eager to open up, to let someone see who I am - and want me for it. The truth is, I'm scared. The past experiences of stagnancy and complacency have driven myself to strategically hide, never allotting too many emotions ensue due to the expected 'falling out' and being unwanted. What Chris had said seemed like a foreign language, something that seemed perpendicular to all interactions I have come across. Should this be a trial, his salutatory homily lacked supporting evidence. Chris' speech would normally be seen as a diverted ploy at affection and attention, yet, surprisingly, were uttered with an implication of honesty. As much as I appreciate his warm words, I can only imagine, for now, anyone genuinely echoing them.

However, I'm ready when they are.

Genesis 24:44,
CourtReplies

Life, As We Know It.

I was on the connecting flight from Atlanta to Los Angeles.

Normally, you would find me going with the herd of humanistic cattle, that is, following delicately in line, taking my seat, turning on my ipod, and focusing all my attentive thoughts on the challenging task of catching some shut eye (undoubtedly due to the lack of leg room and apparent deficiency of foam padding). However, seat 20B called for an atypical experience instead.

As I'm waiting patiently in line, offering a smile to those along side me, I happen to make the regretful yet indispensable realization that this flight is going to be four hours of complete and utter spacial penetration. Immediately I look to the ground. After a few moments of self-governing the possible routes of the emotional spectrum I could enact due to this sudden comprehension, I chose to see this as an opportunity to attempt the art of plane-slumber (thank the instilled generational virtue of optimism). We begin boarding. It's always interesting when you walk through the first class section of the plane, noticing the individuals comfortably sitting in their over-sized futons, with drink and complementary pretzels already in hand. This short pillage seems as if the engineers of the air craft purposely and scrupulously enjoy to torment the 'others' - those who have to walk out of the curtained area only to rub shoulders and to carry the torches of awkward conversations.

As I make my way to my seat, I find that I am undoubtedly the lucky middle man, that is, and none of my other air-born companions had arrived yet. Then I hear the universal pragmatic use of communicative constitutive rules. Almost everyone has surely experienced this. The sound begins with a bit of a mumbling, and the obvious verbal tic. Jujuan speaks.

"Um, ... um. Uh..."

I look up. He understandably was trying to convey that I needed to move, as he was the jammy man to be seated next to the window. As I'm sitting in my seemingly 3 year old car seat, many thoughts begin to deluge my mind. Why had I immediately felt bitter towards a man whom I've never met, just trying to simply take his seat next to me? Inconvenience - it has to be it. I stare at him, thinking to myself, preparing my mind and body for the next 4 hours of inept closeness. I was not particularly in the mood to systematically converse with any individual over the course of the flight, let alone a man whose linguistic performance could use a boost. Finally, as I notice down the line of hasty travelers waiting for Jujuan to kindly take his seat, I respond.

"Oh, here, sorry."

With a mild distaste for the closeness of the seats, I clamber over 20C and pull myself out into the aisle. I try to watch my non-verbal cues, struggling to maintain an ounce of enthusiasm and positivism as well as controlling the obvious desire for the next 4 hours to hurriedly conclude, after all, Jujuan, like any other traveler, would probably like to simply get to his destination as well.

We introduce ourselves, and as we get to talking I begin to see that it will be rather impossible to stop due to his inquisitive nature. My replies to his questions are structurally short, hoping to indicate the lack of desire for interrogations. While he's describing his current position in the work force, I notice Jose sit down on my right, yet purposely choose to not even glance in his direction. I laxly rub my eyes, and rest my head back on the seat. Jujuan is still talking. We prepare for take off.

"What do you do - do you work?"

I begin to engage, after all, it's the least I could do. I look at Jujuan and tell him my situation, and find out that he has never been to the west coast before, and Los Angeles seems like some sort of imaginative location, brimming with possibilities. I let the notion sink in. All my life LA has been in the background, purposely placed out of the foreground due to its unappealing and obtuse nature. Sometimes I take things for granted, and Jujuan made me realize that the county I live in is one entity that I've presumed trivial. The more we converse, I unpredictably declare the need for every individual to visit it at least once, and draw their own conclusions of the area, rather than a dogmatic and epitome opinion of a somewhat cantankerous passenger seated in 20B. He laughs, and the dialogue ensues.

The flight attendants have come by twice by this time, as we both enjoyed a couple of cups of joe. Coffee, in its most rudimentary form, whether you petition black, iced, or with a touch of creamer and Splenda, continues to unpretentiously uphold it's remedial conventions concerning any situation. As a unique gift born amongst the Ethiopians, I amorously and entertainingly cherish the tactic undertakings it brings daily to its followers. Simply stated, coffee is seemingly the enchanted gateway to interpersonal relations. Jujuan asks me another question.

"What profession do you respect?"

I look at him kind of puzzled, confused at the violation of discursive expectations. I had liberally shared the fact that I do not know what I'm going to do with my life, let alone, what I should be doing tomorrow. I expressed my desires for travel, and the hopes of one day having a family, but no real occupational plan. He stared at me, raised his eyebrows in an inquisitive manner, and asked the question again. I look away and respond mechanically how I respect all careers, because it takes a dedicated and hard working individual to keep their employment. Jujuan is not satisfied. He begins to ask if I respect the bouncers at the club, or the women dancing on poles. I look at him and can't help but smile. This guy's good, and can easily see right through my rhetorical ploys.

"Once you find a profession that you honest to goodness respect, you'll know what you want to do."

He smiled and went on to read his book, as I clicked the play button on my ipod and looked to the ceiling. I thought hard about the entities of respect.

I surprisingly drone in and out of consciousness while listening to the methodical rhythms of Blue October. At this point, two hours had gone by, and my in-flight experience had changed drastically from my initial perceptions. I take out my ear buds, and let out a sigh of complacency. Jose seemed to notice. He looks straight ahead in an introverted manner, juxtaposing that of Jujuan, and unexpectedly strikes up a conversation. With his hands folded in his lap, he questions me.

"So I heard you are a Communication major?"

I look at him, and let out a lighthearted remark overflowing with sarcasm relating to the act of eavesdropping. Come to find out, Jose enlisted in the Marines, and has currently been all over central Europe and has not been home in 5 years. I cringe at the thought, after all, 5 years is a very, very long time to be away from someone. Jose has never gone to college, but described his desire to attend after his military service completion. Ironically enough, he was born and raised in the same town that I am currently living in, and once we engaged in the rhetorical similarity strategy, I noticed Jose begin to relax, and the conversation flowed freely.

We began talking politics. Jose obviously did not know how strongly opinionated I am, nor to what extent I was knowledgeable with current economic and worldly affairs. Somehow we got onto the topic of country dependence, and I was arguing the need for self-reliance and autonomy for the United States. I get incredibly riled up, so to speak, especially when debating topics where I have legitimized supporting evidence and can make the varying claims. I'm sure passengers in at least row 11 could hear my boisterous outbursts and assertions. Jujuan was still reading his book. Jose decided to throw some ideas back.

"If we become more independent, don't you think there will be more land fills?"

I couldn't help but laugh. I questioned him back, asking if he could explain the correlation or immediate relevance that land fills had with the current state of affairs in regards to our country's economic enslavement. He talked in circles, and at that moment I had appreciated all that my professors had taught me thus far, and the ability to listen, interpret, and understand what an individual is saying - something I believe a vast majority of people tend to overlook. Jose finished his cyclical speech, interjecting the issue of global warming as well as new Toyota's, and I accepted this form of jargon for what it was. He finished, and concluded with a single statement.

"It would just be really hard."

My smile grew. I looked at him, and instinctively thought to myself and let out a laugh.

"That's what she said."

Another hour had past. Jujuan had set aside his book, Jose was offering myself some complimentary cookies, and I was happily accepting. The three of us sat there, shoulder to shoulder, and loudly conversed over the planes intrusional noises throughout the remainder of the flight. We covered topics on life and love and the struggles they bring. Jujuan had found his soul mate, but had made some substandard decisions in his life that seemed to keep her just out of reach. He was traveling all the way to Los Angeles to tell her how he feels. Jose, on the other hand, had a broken family, and was returning home on leave to make sure everything was satisfactory. He is only 21. I couldn't help but sit back and relinquish in the fact that I had genuinely made two friends. I can't figure out why its so hard for me to create a desire for bonds in California, be it the acceptance of the current relations I have, or the lack of time available, I seem to just simply, not fit in. Yet, somehow, 38,000 feet above the ground, on flight 50, seat 20B, I was able to connect.

I looked out the window out into the dusk with the differing hues cast upon the clouds in an artistic manner. There was a thunderstorm occurring in the distance, a sight I had never witnessed above the clouds, to say the least, even if it came a day too late. The pilot had issued over the speakers that we would be preparing for landing soon, and the flight attendants hurried their trash carts down the aisle. We all fastened our seat belts. I grabbed a napkin, and pulled out a pen. Jujuan handed us his business card, as Jose and I scribbled our information down on the 4 x 4 serviette.

We landed. The three of us stood and waited to get our luggage like old friends, and I inadvertently felt a touch of desolution once I saw my suitcase. I grabbed it, said good luck to both of the men, and walked outside the terminal to the busy and exasperating lifestyle that LA brings.

One thing for sure, is the fact that I am thankful. The life that I'm living may not be exactly what I want nor expect, yet somehow I find contentment in the mere thought itself. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know where I belong. What I do know, though, is in the midst of this undetermined existence, individuals continue to give me hope, reminding me to be appreciative of the moment.

Psalm 39:7,
CourtReplies

Motivation on the Count of Three.

When dealing with life, love, and getting off the couch, motivation is key for survival. But in it's most simplistic form, this driving provocation in some instances, seems to impractically elude an austere acquiescent process.

As usual, I find myself looking around my studio apartment in a truculent nature, in awe at the sight of uncleanliness. A suitcase half unpacked lies at my right, with mountainous piles of clothing that has effortlessly overtaken what little floor space there was to begin with. Dishes have somehow collected into a large and forthcoming company, with tracks seemingly embedded into the floor. You know you've been left at a dejected stop on the stimulus train when you find an ant comfortably sitting at the edge of your tub. How does one get to this disgraceful reputability screaming of parasitical breeding grounds? This leads me to the edifying concept of motivation.

Growing up, certain generational customs and accepted rituals are consistently embedded into the young and frivolous-minded. Within the educational echelons of doom, we're taught the American way of developmental modality: "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." This phrase has overwhelmingly been satirized in various means, as to such I will not delve into. However, I personally feel as if there should be some sort of government subsidy, allotting billions and trillions of dollars in support of 'motivational-regeneration,' as I would like to call it. The red, white, and blue motto would then be altered to read, "life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and the absence of couches and the potato-like." This said regeneration would cause a perceived increase in all human affairs and production, propelling the states to the always desired high global eminence. Right? I think so.

Sometimes I find myself falling into the rut of average, going about each day just as the last, expecting no more, no less. This mediocrity has been noticed to greatly affect my mood, expectations, and importantly, my motivational crusade - not to mention the lack of guests willing to enter my apartment. Life seems to be traditionally accepted, with no great anticipations nor love-like aspirations. Like an unbeatable plague, it can easily be spread.

I feel that, in regards to the relational aspect of the emotional encumbrance, this is how the connection begins to dwindle, or even the ambition to have one at all. We're motivated each morning to get up, go to work, sit through class, wave a polite finger at a passing car, and feed the rat, yet sometimes it seems as if love is out of the question. Why is it so hard to love another individual? Why do we, as a society, find it hampering within the daily duties to become completely exposed and barren, for all that you're worth, to a significant other? Why, then, in turn, do we, once embraced with the sentiment, discover ourselves complacent?

The only answer I can come up with is the plateau of familiarity. Some of us will break through with the propelling force of motivation, and some of us will continue to live our lives in a cyclical pattern with the rise and fall of the sun. Being comfortable where you're at shouldn't be seen as having a negative connotation, yet riding along an asymptotic course of pedestrianism while possessing the cynicism towards life and love, is.

As if mere inferences are not enough (in it's own unadulterated nature), I can't help but try to unearth a better resolution, after all, these dishes aren't going to wash themselves.

CourtReplies' Three Steps to Motivation:
1. Get off the couch (or else gravity will start to take effect).
2. Grab _________ and realize how propitious you are to be exactly where you're at.
a. a Bible
b. an old photo album
c. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows
3. Go outside, it looks even better than being seen through a window.


Galatians 6:7,
CourtReplies

Introducing, The Prowl.

As I'm staring at my computer screen, disobediently ignoring the massive amount of reading that has piled up just from today alone, I can't help but to introduce myself into the profound world of blogging. Hi, I'm CourtReplies, and I'm a college sejunior (in between a junior and a senior), nice to meet you. Now, let's get to the point.

I understand like. I understand lust. There are a lot of emotions that I wholeheartedly appreciate, recognize, comprehend, and have come to know. However, the remorseful attribute I have somehow absentmindedly acquired through genetics limits my boundless-track mind down to a sole concept: the ideology of love.

Love is a powerful emotion, yes. Can it make people do some crazy things? That’s obvious. Have I ever truly grasped the notion of this all encompassing and frivolous sensation? No. The matter is, is that I am very immature when it comes to the fact that, life just isn't fair. Too many significant others have come and gone with sad sob stories and bountiful reasons for me to count love out of my life, and off my mind. Yet it seems as though I can't.

My life has never been perfect, nor would I ever claim such a thing. Moreover, my love life has never been anything short of ‘nail-on-chalkboard’ dreadful, leaving me at wits end scurrying to find the next replacement. The problem with women, is, and myself undoubtedly included, is the ongoing search for the perfect man - the prowl, as I would like to call it. I feel unwanted, undesired, unwholesome, and a plethora of additional un- words when unattached or deemed single-girl status. For example, it feels great when you have a seemingly successful man send you an email like,

“I do love you, [CourtReplies]. I love you just like I love my family in that, I would do anything and everything to make sure that they, and you, were safe, happy, taken care of, and loved. I do love you. So, so much. Just like I would for them, I would lay my life on the line for you. What would people do if you died? I can't speak for anyone else, but I would never be the same. And I've only known you for, what, 9 months? I know my heart, and I know the difference between a passing fancy and true, genuine love. I genuinely, wholeheartedly love you.”

As real as this tidbit can get (and mind you, it is a real message), I cringe at the mere thought that I just had to fix a horrid amount of simple spelling and grammatical errors within those 10 heartfelt sentences. My syntactic perfectionism lead this relationship into the ground, not even alluding to his age and superior status. But, for the sake of upholding my good-person reputation, I will allude no more.

Therefore, with that being said, I can't help but realize a simple factual notion: things change, people change. Events change; life in general changes. I then find myself asking the question that is in every way familiar to all: why? Why must we strive for that feeling of acceptance and deep compassion throughout life's ups and downs? Furthermore, once we have it, why are we so easily persuaded to give it away?

I suppose that's what love is - and that's when you know you've got it. The admiration and desire for inclusion amongst their lives, the fight to keep it, and the desire of never letting go - not to mention proper linguistic skills. Love is all encompassing, truly. I just have yet to find it.


Proverbs 16:9,
CourtReplies.